


Capturing Perfection

by Breath4Soul



Series: Tumblr Made Me Do It [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (ಠ‿↼), (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧, A bit tipsy, Almost drunk sex, Alternate Universe - College/University, Attempted Seduction, Awkwardness, Big Brother Mycroft, Claiming Bites, Comprising positions, Da Vinci, Dammit Mycroft, Dancing, Dancing and Singing, Declarations Of Love, Demisexual Sherlock, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Dirty Dancing, Drunk John, Drunk Sherlock, Drunken Confessions, Embarrassed Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, For art not science John, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Hot John, John "Three Continents" Watson, John Plays Rugby, John is a Flirt, John's first time with a man, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlockprompts, Love Confessions, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft is an epic cockblock, Mycroft's Meddling, Nude Modeling, Nude Photos, Oblivious Sherlock, Oral Sex, Photography, Pining Sherlock, Playful sexy times, Possessive John, Protective John, Protective Mycroft, Rugby Captain John, Seduction, Semi-nude grinding, Sexy John, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock swoons, Silly John, Sweet John, Sweet/Hot, The game is on, Tickle Fights, Tickling, Ticklish Sherlock, Trying to be friends, Tumblr Prompt, Unilock, Virgin Sherlock, Wrestling, Young John Watson, Young Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, drunk games, let's get it on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:45:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 41,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5955898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>An AU ficlet: Rugby Captain John Watson and science-minded photographer Sherlock are classmates at uni. Sherlock has a class project where he needs a nude model. He asks the only boy that intrigues him, John Watson, to be his model. The more time they spend together the more they realize there is a perfect attraction between them. </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Slow, sexy, sweet burn to eventual smut.</p><p>-------------------</p><blockquote>
  <p><br/>“Pictures. Lots of pictures... of you, John... All the different parts of you in their most optimal natural environment...” He stares at John, waiting.</p>
  <p>He is aware he is breathing far more rapidly than this situation should warrant, but his eyes are already flicking to all the pieces of John; his mouth, his eyes, his hair, his hands, his chin, his ear. They are all somewhat ordinary on their own yet they all come together to form this strangely beautiful and compelling whole. He needs to catalog it all; to capture it and break it down to its base elements in order to ultimately understand it. Understand why it affects him like it does.<br/></p>
</blockquote>----------------------<br/><i>All credit for the inspiration belongs to johnlockprompts as a Tumblr prompt. </i>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Muse

Sherlock is at bit at a loss. He has not been in this photography class for very long and he is already in need of a model who is willing to pose nude. _How the hell is he supposed to find said person?_

Obviously, most of the other boys in his class are quite eager to get popular and/or attractive girls to do their modeling, _Predictable. Dull._ He simply isn’t interested in _that._

He has been directed to have a theme for his project, and he wants to do something… _perfect._ He wants to represent _perfection_. He has someone in mind, but he doubts there is any way he can actually convince the boy to agree. However, if he stands any chance at all he knows he has to act fast.

This is how he finds himself anxiously sitting in his anatomy class, his throat clenched around the words that he is terrified of speaking. It is highly probable someone else has asked the student first and even if someone hadn't, well he _is_ captain of the rugby team, why would he even agree to something like this with the odd and reclusive photographer he'd never spoken two words to? 

Yet Sherlock has no second choice. All he knows is it _has to be_ John Watson.

Sherlock fiddles nervously with his note book. He's managed to secure a stool right next to his intended target and now watches out of the corner of his eye as the stout, blond boy leans forward on his elbows smiling around the room. He radiates warmth and a comfortable confidence that is so contrary to the scientific-minded brunet. 

Sherlock’s mind whirls. John is right there, mere millimeters away, if he can just find the right words. Surely his genius brain can string together the right combination to create an unassailable persuasive argument. He contemplates what possible motivation could appeal to the young boy at his side.

“Photographer, then?” Sherlock’s head snaps up, startled, panicked eyes meeting with the blond's warm blue stare. 

“Sorry,” the boy says with a slightly embarrassed smile gracing his square jaw. He holds out his hands palm up as if to show he’s not dangerous. “Didn’t mean to creep you out, just… your bag is open and I can see your camera… and you’re all but mutilating that assignment sheet with Photography in big letters at the top… Wasn’t a big leap.” He shrugs and maintains a calm smile. 

Sherlock stares blankly. He is aware he has been given the perfect opportunity. The rugby captain has provided him the chance to smoothly draw him in to his project and he should really speak now but all he can manage is, “I usually do the deductions.”

This elicits a warm chuckle from the bright-eyed, young man and Sherlock feels some of his own anxiety melt. “Yeah, I’ve heard that about you,” he says, a gentle light dancing in his eyes that the photographer can't look away from. “You're Sherlock, right? Got a bit of a reputation.”

“Do I?” Sherlock says flatly. He suddenly feels gutted. He glances around the room embarrassed. He can only guess what his reputation is. Most people at uni don’t like him once they’ve met him. Seems everyone has secrets to hide and a man that can see them all with one casual glance is to be feared, hated and avoided at all costs. He feels the heat in his face as he turns back to the assignment sheet before him. He begins to fold the corners at angles.

He is jarred by a strong shoulder making a quick bump against his. “Hey,” John says softly. “Don’t worry 'bout it. I know some people get all bent up about your talent, but I think... it’s amazing.” 

Sherlock looks up at him searching his face for probable deception. The young man’s eyes hold no pity or sign that he is teasing, there is only simple respect, kindness and warmth. He is aware his mouth is hanging open but he can’t help it. No one has ever said something so kind to him. “You’re honest and don’t take shit from anybody. I like that.” The rugby captain nods decisively. 

"John Watson," the bright-eyed boy says offering a hand. Sherlock takes it automatically, shaking it with the firmness that had been hammered into him as proper. John glances down at the hand, looking a little surprised and impressed at the strength in those long, thin fingers.

Sherlock watches him carefully. He wants to lock every detail of this moment in his Mind Palace. The perfect tilt of his smile, the golden brown of his hair, the warm tone of his skin, even under the harsh iridescent light of the lab, and most of all that dancing sparkle in his serene blue eyes. 

“Is it hard?” John asks glancing down. Sherlock looks down at his lap, mortification slapping him in the face at the implication of the rugby captain's question. “The assignment,” John adds, a finger coming to rest on the corner of the sheet and twisting it a bit so he can read. Sherlock pulls his eyes up to the sheet and lets out a deep breath of relief.

“It’ll be a challenge,” Sherlock says lifting an eyebrow and stealing a glance at his classmate who is now leaning close to read the paper. Sherlock can smell him; faint whiffs of soap and aftershave mixed with grass and something musky that is uniquely John. 

“Mmmm… a model.” the blond muses thoughtfully, running a hand through his shaggy hair. He doesn’t lean away but turns his head to look up at Sherlock. Their faces are a mere hand width apart from each other now. John's eyes look thoughtful as his tongue slides a circle around the inside of his teeth. Sherlock isn’t sure if the tremble he feels on the inside is apparent. “Who you thinking?”

There is an achingly long silence, just staring into John’s eyes. 

“You?” Sherlock breathes at last. The word seems so frail hanging out there in the air between them. He wants to gather it back in. 

John leans back. His smile has shifted to the side. He looks Sherlock over thoughtfully, glances at the paper again then back at Sherlock who is trying his best to look calm and indifferent in spite of the sharp-winged butterflies fluttering through his insides. 

John straightens his shoulders and his smile blooms. “Yeah. Alright. I’ll be your muse, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock marvels how the mixture of pleasure and pride in John’s features makes him almost look honored to have been asked. He wants to clarify, ask if John understands the question and what he has agreed to do. 

He is saved from uttering something completely imbecilic by the professor stepping into the class and turning the lights down for a slide show.


	2. Gestalt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock explains to John his concept for the project and takes his first image.

“John, I think you should know, my vision for the project will require a certain... _time investment_ … time spent… in _my company._ ” 

Sherlock swallows roughly and glances over at the well-muscled rugby player beside him. He is certain this will make him retract his agreement to be his model and that makes an unexpected ache bloom in his chest. 

John tips his head towards Sherlock as if considering. He has a nonchalant, sauntering stride that is an odd contrast to the way he holds his shoulders; with a certain reigned in tension as if he is always prepared for a fight. 

Sherlock’s stride is generally brisk and efficient; his long legs capable of carrying him far quickly. Accustomed to waking alone, it feels awkward to slow to keep in time with someone else.

“Yeah... Alright,” John at last smiles over at him. “In for a penny, in for a pound.” He shrugs lightly. As they break free of the crowd into the grass of a common area, John's voice becomes softer. “Tell me about it then... Your concept. ..”

“It is… _complex,_ ” Sherlock says shifting from foot to foot as John stops and turns to him.

“I'm sure it is,” John says with a small smile. Sherlock searches his face for scorn or distaste but is intrigued to find something like honest admiration. “I have a few minutes,” John gestures towards a bench in the shade beneath a massive oak. “You explain... I'll try to keep up.”

Sherlock follows John to the bench and sits down stiffly on its edge. His spine is ramrod straight and he stares out across the lawn. John leans back throwing his arms over the back of the bench. Sherlock flushes with the notion that if he sat back John's arm would be around his shoulder. He clears his throat and begins talking rapidly.

“It is based on Gestalt psychology or gestaltism. Gestalt psychology tries to understand our ability to acquire and maintain meaningful perceptions in an apparently chaotic world. It maintains that when the human mind forms a precept _or gestalt_ , the whole has a reality of its own, independent of the parts. In its most basic form it is the understanding that the whole is _other than_ or _greater than_ the sum of the parts." Sherlock pauses, stealing a glance at John. His eyes are wide and his mouth is slightly open. He looks riveted and Sherlock's heart jumps in his chest. He continues even more quickly “The gestalt effect is the capability of our brain to generate whole forms, particularly with respect to the visual recognition of global figures instead of just collections of simpler and unrelated elements-”

“Sherlock,” John interrupts. Sherlock jumps and turns towards him; mouth snapping shut. John smiles. “That's _amazing_ … I mean clearly you’re _brilliant_ …” John ducks his head and scratches at the back of his neck. “But I just need to know what you want _me to do_.”

Sherlock stares at him wide-eyed. His mind is stuttering over his earnest praise again and again. He feels as if he is looking through a long tunnel.

_Amazing. Brilliant._

“Pictures. Lots of pictures... of you, John... All the different parts of you in their _most optimal natural environment._ Formed into a large collage. All the smaller elements making up the whole.” He stares at John, waiting.

He is aware he is breathing far more rapidly than this situation should warrant, but his eyes are already flicking to all the pieces of John; his mouth, his eyes, his hair, his hands, his chin, his ear. They are all somewhat ordinary on their own yet they all come together to form this strangely beautiful and compelling whole. He _needs_ to catalog it all; to capture it, break it down to its base elements in order to ultimately understand it. Understand why it effects him like it does. 

“Alright,” John finally says. His eyes sparkle. A grin cracks his square jaw. “Anything _optimal_ right now?” He leans back further, unabashedly inviting Sherlock to look him over. 

Sherlock swallows roughly, adam's apple bobbing in the long, pale column of his neck. He reaches into his bag, pulls out his camera and adjusts the settings. He zooms in on John's left eye. The sun catches in the iris making it look like fractured stained glass in shades of deep to light blue with green bursting out around the pupil. It looks like a NASA deep space image of the Crab or Veil nebula. Whole universes exist in the depths of that eye.

“Perfection,” Sherlock breathes.


	3. More Than An Object

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John invites Sherlock along to his Rugby practice so that the young photographer can continue his efforts to capture _'all the different pieces of John in their most optimal environment.'_ John's teammate and friend, Mike Standford wants to set Sherlock up with Molly Hooper. Meanwhile, Sherlock finds this new aspect of John as a captain intriguing.

“Alright then, Mike?” John inquires jogging over to the sideline of the field where Mike Stamford is hunched over and panting with his hands resting on his knees; obviously winded. 

“Sorry, John, I was pants on that rolling maul,” Mike rasps shaking his head. He swipes a hand over his round face that is dripping with sweat and adjusts his glasses; his eyes scrunching in frustration with himself. 

“You'll get it. That's why we practice,” John smiles and warmly claps a hand on his teammates shoulder. “You're still my man on the kick,” John says reassuringly. “Precision is your strength.” Stamford returns John's smile, his face lightening to its usual open and relentlessly positive expression. 

“Easy for you to say, mate. If you've got a weakness, John Watson, I've yet to find it.” John chuckles and rolls his eyes. His gaze comes to rest on the bleachers where a tall, pale figure with a fluff of black curly hair is obscured by a rather large professional looking camera held to his eye and trained on John. His smile tips to the side. 

“I'm sure I've got one or two,” he says his voice trailing off as he becomes engrossed in watching the photographer. He feels a strange thrill in knowing Sherlock is on the other end of that lens watching him. 

Stamford’s gaze follows John's line of sight and John breaks his eyes away. He pulls the bottom edge of his rugby jersey up to mop his face exposing the tight muscles of his abdomen and hears the rising chatter from a group of young women near the corner of the bleachers. They have spent the practice admiring various members of the team with tittering conversations and the flash of previously hidden flesh earns the rugby captain some whoops and cat calls as the group nearly falls over themselves. He chuckles and turns away blushing.

“For the papers?” Stamford inquires jerking his head back towards the figure with the camera. John looks over at him and smiles. 

“No. Not this time.”

“No?” Stamford says squinting. “Admirer then? Seems rather keen on you. Haven't seen him tracking anyone else.”

“He's a… friend… classmate… it's for a project,” John says pulling at the lobe of his own ear. Stamford watches him with interest. 

“His name is Sherlock,” John offers shrugging. “I'm helping with his photography project.” John begins stretching his calf muscles, pulling one leg up and then switching to the other.

“Oh?” Stamford has a funny, precocious look that means he is planning something. John eyes him cautiously as the thinner man stares at Sherlock with open interest. “So _that’s_ him?” 

John pauses and cocks his head. “You know him?”

“Know _of_ him,” Stamford says with a grin and raised eyebrow. There is a familiar twinkle in his eyes that makes John uneasy. “This is perfect, mate. Care to introduce me?”

“Why?” John's tone is cautious with a soft edge of warning. He knows his teammate enough to suspect he is up to something and he feels a strange surge of something like protectiveness for the young photographer. 

Stamford rounds on him. His face is all eagerness and excitement; lit up like a kid at Christmas. In spite of his overall thinness his face is broad, soft and young, reminding John of a cherub.

“You know that Freshman I'm tutoring for biology, Molly Hooper?” Stamford rambles excitedly. “She is always going on and on about how brilliant this bloke named Sherlock is. _Genius,_ she says.” 

John nods and his eyes slide to the photographer who is entirely focused on his equipment.

“He is that,” John agrees with a thoughtful grin.

“Yes, well, she's more than a little gone on him, but I guess he's a bit… _intimidating_ … and you've seen her, mousy little thing - I've no doubt that when he comes around she's like my mum’s chihuahua; shaking and all but making puddles at her own feet. If you can introduce me to him then I can introduce him to her and…” Stamford claps his hands together and smiles broadly. 

There is nothing Stamford enjoys more than playing matchmaker and generally this odd obsession with coupling up all their friends would make John laugh, but now the captain is staring at him blankly with the smile gone from his face. He turns and looks out across the field of players.

“Watch it, Rodgers. Your hands! Hold the bind,” John shouts. The play breaks up and Rodgers gives an apologetic grimace to John. The captain shakes his head. 

He feels Stamford watching him; waiting for a response. For a long moment he continues to evaluate the play that is re-forming, then he sighs and turns towards his friend. 

“Look, I don't know him very well and... he's not very... _sociable_ ,” John states reluctantly.

Stamford continues to stare at him with his wide, smooth face open and brimming with anticipation. John sighs again and rolls his stiff shoulders. “I’ll feel it out and if he seems like he'd be interested we'll arrange something casual to introduce them, ok?” John's voice is authoritative in a way he usually only uses on the field. Stamford’s thin eyebrows slowly climb onto his forehead as if something is dawning on him.

“Hmmm,” says Stamford thoughtfully and his expression shifts to something that speaks of quiet knowing trying to keep surprise and intrigue in check. He glances back at the bleachers, studying the photographer.

“I see,” he says at last with a goofy grin. John ducks his head to scratch at the back of his neck with an index finger.

“No, Stamford, you don't,” John gives him a playful shove and the two men run back onto the field, grappling and jokingly trying to trip and tackle each other before they fold themselves back into the practice play.

\-------------

Sherlock brings the camera to his eye and peers through the viewfinder. He zooms in on the compact man making his way to the sideline where a thinner man with a round face and equally round spectacles is hunched over. He focuses in on the legs of the approaching man; the effortless coil and flex of well-worked muscles wrapped in sculptural lines that continually shift beneath the skin. It is art in motion and Sherlock wishes he can move closer. However, he is in observation mode which means he must minimize his interference with his subjects' natural tendencies in order to preserve the integrity of his data.

He snaps a picture of the right leg as it flexes, pushing off the ground. He pulls back his camera and looks at the display screen as he presses the button to review the image. He zooms in on the captured image of the leg, as far as the image will allow, but it still is not enough. He sighs and scrolls through the other photos: _John’s arm, bicep flexed and held aloft in triumph over a successful play; the back of his neck beaded with sweat and tense as he is engaged in a particularly physical play; his left calf from behind, muscle tensed and strained to its limit as he pushes into a group of men._

It has been a fairly successful shoot thus far. Sherlock is pleased that he accepted John’s casual invitation to come to his Rugby practice. He had initially considered it a bad idea because of his own disinterest and disdain for sports in general. In truth, he hadn’t paid much attention to sports previously. Most were easily dismissed as without any meaningful purpose and many seemed to only serve as barbaric acts of consensual violence. It held little appeal to him and he therefore had no idea what to expect from the experience. He was pleasantly surprised to find it remarkably intriguing. 

He had known that John is Captain of the Rugby team and had deduced that this apparently gave him social status among his peers, but what he had not anticipated was how much he would enjoy the opportunity to see John in a position of command. 

The change in John as he assumes the role of captain is apparent in every muscle of his body. He radiates focus, determination and purpose. He is transformed into something powerful and impressively authoritarian. Watching this he feels like yet another dimension of his strangely appealing muse has been revealed and it is thrilling to witness and explore.

The game seems to require a lot of physical contact; like hugging and wrestling punctuated with brief interludes of tossing or kicking an odd shaped object. It isn’t particularly violent, which makes it more respectable in Sherlock’s estimation. The game clearly entails some form of strategy which John appears largely responsible for determining and ensuring the group of men successfully execute. This is merely a practice so Sherlock finds he cannot discern exactly what John’s strategy might be, which is intriguing in its own right. 

Sherlock lifts his camera again and his breath catches in his chest, John is looking at him, a small smile playing on his lips and a thoughtful look in his eyes. The camera lense makes the distance between them fall away and Sherlock feels as if the other man is right in front of him trying to tell him something important. Then quite suddenly Sherlock’s heart seizes up as John lifts his shirt and the chiseled muscles of his abdomen are revealed, glistening with sweat. 

For several seconds Sherlock is paralyzed, drinking in the sight; the way the late afternoon light plays across the smooth, slick flesh that ripples and flexes as he moves his shirt across his downturned face strangely brings to Sherlock’s mind the muscles of a prowling lion he’d photographed at the zoo last month. 

Sherlock at last wills his finger to snap the photo before John lowers the shirt and turns away. He distantly can hear female voices calling out to John like he is some sort of male stripper and anger wells up inside of him that they would treat John in such a degrading manner. 

_Not an object. So much more._

Sherlock pulls up the photo he has just taken and admires it. He zooms in so that John’s solid core fills the entire screen. He moves his finger along the image and continues to stare down at his camera as John and the young, round-faced man move back towards the other players. 

_So. Perfect._


	4. The Pub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John convinces Sherlock to join him in an evening at the pub. He finds the young photographer has never drank alcohol before and proceeds to get him a bit tipsy. When Sherlock wants to photograph John's shoulders the rugby captain and his photographer find themselves in a bit more _intimate_ environs. There are some drunk confessions on John's part.

> Project is due in six days. Need more photos of you. -SH
> 
> Going out tonight. Come with. -John
> 
> Where? -SH
> 
> Pub. -John
> 
> Not my area. -SH  
>  Tomorrow? -SH
> 
> My ‘natural environment.’ -John
> 
> … -SH
> 
> I'll be by at 7:30 -John

___________________

“What you drinkin’?” John asks as they slide onto the bar stools at a tall table.

“I don't drink,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly. He glances around the crowded bar uneasily. Surprise flickers over John’s face.

“You don't drink? Never?” Sherlock sighs and grits his teeth. His lack of familiarity and comfort in this new environment making it difficult to bite back a cutting rebuke about having to repeat himself. He swallows and focuses on John. 

“It clouds the mind.”

“Yeah, you're right there. That's kinda the point,” John chuckles not mentioning the tension he sees in his companion’s body but subtly moving closer. 

“Why would I want to kill off brain cells?” Sherlock snaps.

“No... I suppose if you put it that way, you wouldn't…” John’s smile is warm and fond. It throws Sherlock off balance. “Then again, if anyone has some to spare,” John rocks into him bumping his strong shoulder into Sherlock's thinner one. “It’d help you relax.” Sherlock sighs and gives a small nod.

“Beer?” John inquires with a shrug, his shoulder brushing against Sherlock’s again. The pale, young man wrinkles his nose.

“Don’t like the taste.” John lifts his eyebrow at him. “Yes, I at least tasted it, John. I just saw no appeal.”

“Yeah, it is a bit of an acquired taste,” John nods in agreement.

“And I have never understood why someone would wish to acquire it,” Sherlock says so softly that John would not have heard it over the din of the crowd if he was not so close. John laughs softly.

“Fair enough. I’ll get you something… _sweeter.”_ Sherlock narrows his eyes on John as if this concession might be an insult. The shorter man just shrugs with a warm smile. He turns and disappears into the crowd gathered at the bar, leaving Sherlock alone at the table. He tries to duck his head and not look at anyone too closely, but within a moment a man with a broad face, square shoulders and dark eyes slides up beside him. Sherlock shoots him a look that clearly says _‘Sod off’_ but the dull eyes looking back at him pay it no mind.

“Need some company?” The man more states than asks as he slides into John’s seat.

“No, I am quite happy keeping my own company,” Sherlock replies curtly, his body tensing involuntarily. A predatory smile spreads across the other man’s square jaw. 

“Coy. I like that. Come on, poppet, I’ll buy a drink.”

Sherlock lets his eyes flick over the man briefly before looking away. _Uni dropout. 28 or 29. Pretends to be younger to pull college students. Works at a car repair shop. Soon to be fired because he drinks too much, does drugs and has been stealing parts to sell black market. Low IQ. Well on the way to drunk. Agressive._

“I have someone getting me a drink already,” Sherlock's tone is harsh but he feels himself trembling. He looks down at his camera and starts playing with the dials.

“Yeah, he ain’t me, though… Ah, you like cameras. I’m up for that. I'll let you take all the pictures you’d like. Make a nice little scrapbook of all the things I'd do to ya.” The man abruptly moves forward placing a hand roughly on Sherlock’s arm and an embarrassing squeak jumps out of the photographer’s lips at the unexpected and harsh touch. His exclamation is swallowed up by the noise of the crowd, unnoticed. “You best look at me when I’m talkin’ to you, poppet,” the man growls and tightens his grip on Sherlock’s arm. The smell of alcohol on his breath is nauseating. “Sweet, young thing like you needs to be shown how to give respect is all.”

Just then John shoves his way in between him and the stranger, breaking the stranger’s hold. He is turned in towards Sherlock, pointedly ignoring the stranger in his seat. 

“Here’s your drinks,” he says sliding two colorful drinks onto the table and studying Sherlock’s face. The younger man’s silver eyes are wide, full of the lingering terror and alarm, now flooding with relief at John’s presence. John’s return gaze is apologetic. He reaches out and places a hand over the location on Sherlock’s arm where the man had been gripping. Looking down at John’s hand on his arm and feeling the warmth and kindness radiating from the gentle brush of fingertips, Sherlock almost believes that touch has a strange power to erase the stranger’s. 

John pulls his hand away and his face contorts in anger as he turns toward the larger man still sitting in his seat. The stranger is looking past the shorter blond man, staring hungrily at his lost prize. The heat of pure fury radiating off of John pulls the man’s eyes to the interceder whose return gaze is cold and fierce. There is no doubt John is up for a fight and he will be out for blood. The stranger lifts his chin and slides off the stool. He looks around John at Sherlock.

“Offer stands, poppet, if you change your mind, I’ll be around.” John’s fists clench and unclench at his side as the man moves away.

“Bugger off, pikey.” John mutters lifting his chin as the other man retreats. He slides into his previous seat and scoots it closer to Sherlock. He looks at the table a moment, then takes a long pull from his beer. 

“Sorry about that,” he mutters at last. “Guess I shouldn’t have left you alone like that.” Sherlock clears his throat and blinks repeatedly, pushing back his emotions. He scorns himself. He is a grown man. He should be able to take care of some idiot trying to make a pass at him.

“I’m - I’m fine, John. You needn’t worry about me.” He leans forward and examines the glasses of colorful liquid John has brought back. “What are these?” John smiles and embraces the change of topic.

“This one is called a Sidecar,” John says pointing to an orange red drink with a lime slice on the top. “Cognac, orange liqueur and lemon juice.” 

John slides a yellow drink in a long stemmed glass forward. He smiles looking pleased with himself. “This one is called _Tea Thyme_. English Breakfast tea and vodka with thyme and dark, fig-flavored honey.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows lift into the dark fringe of his hair and he pulls the second drink forward. “I like honey,” he says quietly.

John watches intently as the younger man presses the rim of the glass to his lips and takes a tentative sip. He closes his eyes for a second letting the flavor ruminate on his tongue. John just stares, watching the minute flexing and pressing of those plump lips and the flicker of pleasure, curiosity and consideration passing over the placid features. He flushes and looks down at his own beer when those silver-gray eyes pop open.

“Unexpected,” Sherlock breathes. “Local honey and fresh wild thyme. Acceptable.” Sherlock takes another longer sip, his eyes sliding half closed.

“Careful,” John laughs. “I don’t imagine you’ve much tolerance if this is your first time.” Sherlock puts his hand on his sternum feeling the warmth infuse his chest.

“You may be right,” he sighs looking down. Another sip and he can feel his muscles relaxing. “About everything,” Sherlock adds.

“I’m going to remember you said that,” John laughs.

“Yes, best cherish it. I don’t say it that often,” Sherlock admits with a sloppy smile. John bobs his head; a fond smile playing on his lips.

“Right, try this one,” John says pushing the second glass forward. 

“Oh, John, are you trying to get me drunk,” Sherlock asks waggishly, his voice deep and rumbly with a slight slur. John sits back a little, the heat surging into his cheeks.

“Might do,” he says honestly. Sherlock snorts. At the odd sound from his posh companion John bursts into laughter and then they both are giggling so hard tears are at the corners of their eyes when the fit dies down. 

Sherlock tastes the orange drink and his nose scrunches up in a childish way that sets John laughing again.

“Prefer this,” the brunet says pulling the yellow drink back towards himself while pushing the orange away.

“Yeah, that much is clear,” John huffs. Sherlock sniffs and swallows another long slurp of Tea Thyme to chase the repulsive flavor of artificial orange out of his mouth. They fall into a comfortable quiet taking periodic sips from their drinks. John finishes his beer and in lieu of leaving Sherlock to fetch another takes the Sidecar. He scrunches his nose too initially, earning a satisfied smirk from Sherlock, but continues drinking it. Sherlock is ⅔ done with his drink when John abruptly breaks their silence.

“What, Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“You're staring…” John wipes foam from the last of the Sidecar drink from his upper lip and rocks back on the stool, palms up. “My shoulders... You're staring at my shoulders, Sherlock.”

“Yes... well... they're relaxed... They're _never_ relaxed, John.” Sherlock tears his eyes away and bows his head to fiddle with the glass of citrine liquid, stroking a thin index finger through the condensation.

John laughs. He leans forward and hunches closer to Sherlock, his voice is conspiratorial. “And you want to photograph them?”

Sherlock looks up. His eyes are drawn back to the relaxed trapezius muscles; still strong but at last holding their power comfortably. “Very much so,” he breathes. 

“Have at it, then.” John winks, puffs his chest up a little and leans back again. His bleary eyes sparkle.

“Can’t - Can't use it… They’re - they're not bare,” Sherlock stutters. 

John looks confused. “Bare?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock sighs. “Nude. The project requires a nude model.”

“Nude?” John smiles. Sherlock shoots him a half-hearted glare. John smacks his lips making a popping sound. 

“Right!” John looks around a moment, then brings his eyes back to Sherlock with a precocious grin that sends a warm chill down Sherlock’s spine “Come on then,” John says leaning in intoxicatingly close, his voice is almost a growl. 

He grabs Sherlock by the wrist. Startled, Sherlock stumbles, sliding off his stool. When the taller man had righted himself, John looks him over with a wide grin and heavy eyelids. A firm grip on his wrist pulls him close. “Yeah. Bring the camera,” John says gesturing at the camera hanging from the strap around his neck. They move through the crowd that is noisy and jostling for drinks.

John catches the bartender's eye and they exchange a knowing smile. Then the man behind the bar leans over and John leans forward to whisper in his ear. The bartender turns away and returns with a napkin he slides in John's direction. With a wink John takes it and continues to draw Sherlock back towards the emergency exits. He stops at a door marked ‘Staff Only’ and pulls out the napkin, shaking a key loose from it into his palm. 

“Owed me a favor,” John mumbles. He glances around then uses the key to unlock the door. He laughs as he pulls Sherlock inside and shuts the door behind him, leaning in close. 

“You know everyone is going to think -” In the quiet, John's slur is more pronounced. His voice is velvety, sliding off his tongue too easily. John doesn't finish his sentence. He lets his eyebrows dance up and down on his forehead instead.

“What?” Sherlock asks baffled. His senses are a bit scattered from the sudden shift of input. There is no longer the overwhelming onslaught of so many bodies providing too much data and the cacophony of noise from too many threads of conversation overlapping and assaulting his ears. _There is only John._

John chuckles and retreats a little in the small space, shucking off his jumper and tossing it over some boxes.

“You know. They're going to think we're shagging in here,” John giggles. Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. His mouth feels unnaturally dry from the alcohol and he licks at his lips. His cheeks feel strangely warm.

“How is that a logical conclusion? Is that the sort of thing people do in here?” Sherlock asks his brow scrunched as he looks around. The room is small and rather dim. It appears to be a supply closet, with metal shelves along the far wall, brooms and various sized boxes with bold printed identifiers of various supplies. A single bare light bulb that is far under wattage or about to give up sheds a soft white light. It illuminates very little, leaving valleys of shadows everywhere. 

John goes still, staring at Sherlock with a tilted head as if trying to work something out.

“Yeah... Yeah, it is Sherlock,” he finally says slowly.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes taking a small step backward, his backside thumping against the door. He straightens and clears his throat. He squints up at the light then he turns his eyes downward to adjust his camera settings accordingly.

“I suppose they would then,” he mumbles to his camera. “It seems that's the sort of thing there is no end to the amount of time, energy and oxygen simple minds waste prattling on about.” He stops, a thought striking him.

_John is worried._  
_Worried about being seen._  
_Of course John is worried about being seen as potentially shagging with Sherlock; John cares about what other people think of him. He has a lot to lose by being assumed as shagging an unpopular freak._

Sherlock takes a deep breath. He clears his throat and doesn't look up. “If it is a problem for you we can leave now. There’s hardly been enough time for-” John's laugh startles Sherlock, and he fumbles, almost dropping his camera. 

“For me? No. Not _me_... I should be so lucky to pull someone like you.” Sherlock’s head snaps up and catches John looking him over with an odd smile and eyes that seem glazed from more than alcohol. 

Sherlock can't speak. His mouth falls open and his eyes hurt from how wide they are strained. He turns his head slowly from side to side looking for someone to verify that he really just heard what he thinks he just heard. He can't make John's words fit any notion of reality he currently holds. His mind spins through it again and again, trying to understand how he clearly must be misinterpreting this. 

_A joke perhaps? John is teasing him? The alcohol does seem to have made him especially prone to laughing and smiling… perhaps this is just a dark twist of humor on his part?_

When he comes back from his contemplation John is still talking

“-your reputation...?” Dark blue eyes are looking up at him expectantly. Sherlock swallows, blinks, then looks down. A cutting remark about Sherlock's reputation, then? _It seems alcohol does bring out a cruel streak in John._

“Yes. Well, we both know my reputation is less than favorable,” Sherlock says coolly.

John squints, wrinkling his nose as if trying to bring Sherlock into focus. “Less than favorable?” He sounds confused. “I mean, some people are scared of you, yeah.” John shrugs. “That's more about them than you... I didn't think you cared about _that._ ” 

“I don't,” Sherlock says firmly. 

John is down to his last two buttons and his shirt is hanging open. Sherlock can't help visually probing the strong planes peeking from below the fabric.

“Yeah. I just don't want to ruin… I don't know... you've got that whole unobtainable vibe going for ya... If they're not intimidated by your massive intellect… well, just look at you.” He makes a gesture that takes in Sherlock’s whole body and simultaneously runs his eyes along his frame. He gives a pleased giggle before ducking his head to focus on unbuttoning his last few buttons. 

Sherlock obliges, looking down at himself. He found himself woefully ill-equipped for a typical evening out. He managed to find a pair of dark washed jeans in the back of his wardrobe but they are not the loose fitting style most preferred these days. He doesn't like anything too loose as it makes him feel as if his thin frame is even smaller, swimming in the shapeless clothes. So the jeans, like his trousers, fit him as snugly as a second skin. It plainly displays how scrawny and gangly he is. He had tried to find a casual shirt, but could find nothing suitable, so he opted for a plain, dark purple button up. He had unbuttoned the top two buttons and rolled up the sleeves above the elbows to try to give it a more casual feel, but he knows the formal quality of the shirt likely ensures he does not fit in. The color of the shirt also has the unintended consequence of emphasizing how unnaturally pale his skin is. 

He allows his eyes to drift back up to John. The rugby captain with his strong, capable body gives off the aura of comfortable confidence. His jeans are a lighter wash and fit him well in the waist and buttock but not tightly on the legs. His button down with jumper is understated in an effortlessly trendy way. The color perfectly accentuates the breathtaking blue of his eyes. 

John is now working the last button free. His tongue pokes out between his teeth as if this requires intense concentration. He is teetering a bit from side to side.

_Perhaps it does._

“You might need a personal body guard to fight them off if they actually think…” John mutters in the direction of his own navel.

_Does alcohol make you delusional?_

_Maybe there was a drug slipped in it?_

“I don't - don't understand,” Sherlock admits. 

John gives a hardy chuckle. “Riiiiight,” John says dragging out the word with a tone that makes clear that he thinks Sherlock is being coy or falsely modest. 

Before he can correct him, the athletic figure before him throws off his shirt in a somewhat dramatic flourish. 

“Alright!” John says energetically shaking his bare arms loose in front of himself as if he is about to go for a swim or work out rather than just stand there while Sherlock snaps photos, worshiping him by preserving him in detail. 

“Where do you want me, Sherlock?” The question is so barefaced. He looks up from under his fringe with his chin tipped slightly to the side. He is half-naked and completely surrendering to Sherlock and something about that makes the photographer's mind careen off the deep end of desire. His body is hot all over, flushed and loose with alcohol.

_On the floor. In my bed. Inside me. God, anywhere - everywhere, John._

Sherlock tries to blink back the sudden flood of carnal thoughts.

_Must be the alcohol._

John seems to recognize his blunder or perhaps sees the expression written on the photographer's face. He looks down bashfully, scratching at the back of his neck. 

“Yeah… that sounded... a bit... _not good._ ”

“No. It was...” _Perfect_ “Fine. It's fine.” Sherlock clears his throat. “Right there, John. Stay right there.”


	5. Needs Must

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The photographer and his muse end up at Mycroft's disused flat.

“So you goin’ to show me how this works?” John slurs as his thick fingers caress the dials of Sherlock's camera. Sherlock lifts heavy eyelids to look over at him as he slouches further down on the couch, thin frame sprawled bonelessly.

“Don't - Don't touch it,” Sherlock murmurs, swatting in John's direction, but he is too weighed down by the alcohol in his veins to sit up and close the extra distance between them on the sofa to actually make contact with John. John doesn't seem to notice, curling his body and presenting his shoulder for the man sprawled beside him to barely swipe fingertips against it. His laugh is slow and rumbly.

“There we go!” John says sliding the switch for the power and looking extremely pleased with himself as the camera flickers to life. Sherlock squints at him.

“You - You found the switch.” Sherlock looks vaguely concerned but mostly impressed. He still can't be bothered to pull himself up to snatch his most prized possession away.

“Yeah,” John says swaying towards him. “I watch you ‘nough. Watch you… watching me… watching you.” John giggles. “Damn lucky cam’ra... way you always…” John looks down at Sherlock’s elegant hands, long fingers sprawled across the tops of his thighs. He huffs and turns his eyes back to the camera. 

“How d’ya work this thing?” He holds it up, pointing it at Sherlock a bit unsteadily.

“Phttt! Not at me. _You_.” Sherlock says pointing at him. The shutter clicks and Sherlock opens his eyes a bit further in alarm. The shutter clicks again.

“What’d ya doin’?”

“Got ya… how do I see it?”

“Button. Right of screen. Small blue isosceles triangle.”

John lifts his eyebrows, his chin juts out and his mouth pulls down at the corners indicating he's impressed. “How the hell you able to say _that_ word when you’re _this wasted_...” John throws his hands up as if baffled. “Beyond me!”

“Thank you,” Sherlock’s self-satisfied smile is lazy and he doesn't open his eyes. “Not though… wasted.” Sherlock waves a hand weakly in the air with disdain as if to dismiss the thought as absurd.

“Sure,” John chuckles. He squints at the camera a moment then pushes the button with the blue triangle.

“Oh. There you are,” He says staring at the screen on the back of the camera. “Can I…?” John puts two fingers in the center of the screen and moves them in opposite directions towards the edges. The image enlarges. “There!” John’s smile is radiant as he glances up at Sherlock. The groggy younger man's brow is furrowed, scrunching his whole face, and he squints at John with suspicion before letting his eyes slide closed again.

John hums appreciatively as he drags the enlarged image around beneath calloused fingertips. 

“Christ. What color even are your eyes?” John tries to zoom in further on the image. “Thought they were light blue, but they look... bright green here…” John looks up at Sherlock licking his lips. Sherlock opens his eyes wide a moment. John leans forward and studies them. “Yesh, like a dark green blue… I could have swore-”

“They change,” Sherlock interjects with a weak gesture in the direction of his own face. He shifts his position slightly. “Structural pigmentation. Tyndall scattering in a turbid layer of the iris. Absorption of light can alter based on chemical composition of ocular fluid excreted in response to… _internal state._ ” John squints a moment, his sluggish brain trying to parse Sherlock’s words.

“So you're sayin’ they're like a mood ring?” John snickers and Sherlock joins in with a lazy chuckle.

“And what's your mood _now_? “ John asks leaning back beside Sherlock so their shoulders rest against each other. He continues to gaze at the image on the screen, as if mesmerized.

“Mmmm… a little buzzed,” Sherlock responds touching two fingers to his temple. “Very lethargic.” He flattens a hand on his chest. “And a little horny.” He ends matter-of-factly as his slender hand slides down to his groin

“Sorry, what?” John says slowly setting the camera down on his lap and turning towards the reclining man.

Sherlock twirls his fingers languorously in the air as if this gesture replays the audio of his previous statement. After a moment he points to his own head again.

“Usually it's like there are 15 radio stations playing different programmes at the same time, but now it's just… static. White noise. Quiet.” Sherlock grins. 

“And it seems as though my mass has increased expa- exponentially… everything takes so... much... effort. I may just sink here under the weight of my own gravity.” Sherlock gives a heavy sigh. 

“But then I also feel…” Sherlock slides his hand down and in the tight jeans John can see the distinct bulge that has firmed there as his hand traces it. “Unusual,” Sherlock remarks blandly leaving his hand lightly cupping. 

John stares a moment before letting a long breath out through his nose, his jaw clenched tight. He runs a hand back and forth ruffling his hair vigorously then looks up at the ceiling. He leans forward and places the camera on the glass coffee table in front of them, putting a little distance between him and his buzzed, lethargic and horny friend

“Nice place,” John says looking around at the beautiful, extremely posh flat. He realizes he said it before, when they first entered, but the younger man hadn't seemed to notice because at that time he had been having a wrestling match with his rather long coat and wobbling around on those long legs like a giraffe fighting the effects of a tranquilizer. 

“Appalling.” Sherlock opens his eyes just enough to roll them, then closes them again. “Brothers,” He states with a disgusted grimace. 

John hums his understanding taking in the sleek modern furniture and the open space. “Must be someone _important._ ”

“He'd like to think so,” Sherlock growls and John shoots up out of his seat beside the photographer at feeling a bolt of heat travel down his chest and into his groin at that deep, rumbly and slightly silky tone.

He paces towards the window to put some distance between him and the man draped over the couch with a hand still resting idly over his own arousal. He leans his forehead against the cool surface of the glass to temper his hot flesh and focus. 

“He'll be back soon, yeah?” John’s voice has a bit of a pleading edge to it. He'd convinced Sherlock to drink, the young man's first time doing so, he feels like he can't just leave him alone in this state.

“Unlikely... Probably off starting a war or stealing candy from babies... Only passes through every 6 months or if I make trouble. “

“Oh.” John tries not to groan. “What sort of trouble,” he asks grasping for a distraction. Sherlock gives a slow shrug.

“Blowing things up. Telling professors they’re idiots. Nearly getting expelled. That sort of thing.” John laughs. 

Sherlock drags himself forward and narrows his eyes on John. “All this talk about Mycroft is killing my buzz, John.” John snorts and takes a step forward.

“Good.”

“Good?” Sherlock looks affronted.

“The sooner you sober up the sooner I can _leave_.” The hurt look flickering across Sherlock’s face makes John cringe.

“Shit. I didn't mean to sound so-

“You're leaving,” Sherlock groans flopping back. John stops, looking his friend over. The desire to stay and see where this goes is warring with the last scrap of logical brain that tells him that spending a night with Sherlock when they are both drunk is a minefield.

“You want me to stay?” He asks softly. Sherlock’s return glare tells him he is being an idiot to think otherwise. John laughs. This man is his friend. _It will be fine._

“You'll hate me in the morning,” he teases. Sherlock pulls himself forward again and looks John over slowly. He tips his head to the side inquisitively and a heat of challenge and intrigue comes into his green-blue eyes that makes John's insides squirm.

“Don't think that is possible,” he says. John ducks his head and rubs at the back of his neck, feeling a flush crawl on to his face.

“I just mean… _the hangover_ … first time - you're going to be feelin’ it in the morning…” Sherlock flops back, arms and legs sprawled. He looks up at John through half-lidded eyes.

“You could stay and take care of me… _doctor._ ” John purses his lips and shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking heel to toe. 

“Not a doctor _yet,_ Sherlock,” he says turning back to the window with a grin.

“Needs must when the devil drives, John,” Sherlock retorts with a shrug and a smirk. His rumbly voice sends a shiver of electricity down John's spine. He lets out a low, warbling whistle. Then he looks over his shoulder to cock an eyebrow at Sherlock 

“Shakespeare called it?” 

Sherlock grins, pleased that the rugby captain picked up the reference to the line from the playwright’s lesser known _All's Well That Ends Well._ His eyes sharpen with intrigue, studying his muse for a moment. A large smile splits his face.

“My poor body, madam, _requires it_ : I am driven on by the _flesh_ ,” Sherlock bellows in an overly dramatic voice, and they both are seized with a fit of giggles. 

When the laughter dies, John stares at Sherlock warmly.

“That was just _so_ -”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock offers.

“Perfect,” John corrects. Sherlock stares at the captain with his wide, viridian eyes blinking slowly and his mouth slightly agape.

"Perfect?" He repeats quietly.


	6. Stay Drunk

“You know, there is one sure fire way _not_ to have to deal with a hangover,” John says moving to the kitchen. He opens a cabinet, squinting as he peers into it then, quickly shutting it, he moves on to the next. Sherlock watches him through half-lidded eyes, body still lax as he slumps, sprawled out on the couch.

“How's that, John?”

John stops, gazing in a cabinet he’s just opened. He claps his hands together with a large smile. “Ah, yes!’ He pulls out a bottle with one hand and two glasses with the other. He waves them at Sherlock while his eyebrows dance up and down on his forehead. 

“Stay drunk,” he replies with a precocious smile and a wink. Sherlock snorts. John brings the bottle and glasses to the glass coffee table in front of the younger man and sets them down. He tips the bottle up to show Sherlock, resting it against his forearm like a waiter. 

“Zir, tonight we have for őu the Dry River 2008 Pinot Gris,” he says in a mock French accent. Sherlock squints up at him. 

“Ton accent est affligeant, John,” Sherlock rumbles in the rolling tones that have surely earned French its reputation as being such a romantic spoken language. John freezes, then takes a deep breath with a weak smile. This is going to be more difficult than he thought. 

“Alright. That settles _that_ … no more French tonight!”

Sherlock squints up at the blond, tilting his head and watching him with inquisitive eyes, “Pourquoi pas, ma muse?” He says slowly. John flushes slightly. Goosebumps are rising along his sides and back, sending little chills down his spine.

“Come on now,” John says putting the bottle back down on the table and beginning to work on the cork. “Give it a break. “

“Je vais continuer a parler comme ça toute la nuit si vous continue a rougir aussi joliment,” Sherlock says leaning forward and gazing up at him with a challenging smile.

“Arrêter maintenant, vous git!” John snaps in a low growl. Sherlock’s eyes widen and he blinks up at John in surprise. He flops back on the couch and his long, thin hand rubs at his chest for a second before he absently slides it back down to rest over his groin.

“Surprised I know French, or that I called you a git?” John asks only glancing at the wide-eyed brunet. 

“Both,” he responds honestly, staring up at the rugby captain with open awe. He narrows his gaze on John's mouth as a contemplative hum rolls from his chest. He feels the pull of intrigue at his automatic reaction to this new sensory input; a stern command in the flowing, full and drawn out tones of French; that deep, rumbly voice created by air from John’s lungs over his vocal cords formed into words by the specific sequence of delicate movements with the twisting and flexing of tongue and lips. He can understand the mechanics of it, yet not the surprising effect on his body. 

There is a sense of heat inside him; like that first fiery sip of alcohol earlier in the evening. Yet the burning of his insides moves through his chest and sinks all the way down to pool in his groin where there is a steady throb pulsing somewhere between pleasure and pain. There is tension and pressure in his thighs and stomach, and he is aware of his breathing varying from a normal pattern. He cannot recall his body ever being so strongly affected by another human being. 

The sensation, though unfamiliar, is not _unpleasant_. He thinks hazily that he would like to know what other new sensations John can pull out of him. He lets his head slide to rest on his shoulder, tilts his chin and looks sideways up at John.

“Will you speak some more French to me, John?” he entreats with a placid smile he hopes is encouraging. John’s eyes fix on those long fingers resting over Sherlock’s groin and the photographer can’t help the twitch in them, reflexively tightening the grip on himself under the heat of that stare. John's eyes gleam a lovely royal blue as he flushes deep red.

“Uh… _No_ … Yeah, _definitely_ not,” John turns on his heels and walks back towards the kitchen to put some space between him and the young man that seems to be unaware of how maddeningly seductive he is being. He stands there with his head hung a moment; leaning on the worktop and trying to get his urges back under control.

He knows that his new friend is probably not trying to flirt with him. He is fairly certain from their discussion in the back room of the bar that the wide-eyed brunet is inexperienced (if not entirely oblivious) in these matters.

As for that, they both apparently are in uncharted territory here. John has never before found himself attracted to a bloke. Yet he finds himself magnetically drawn to this bright and uniquely beautiful, young photographer. 

He had found Sherlock compelling since he first stumbled across him months ago perched on a wall photographing the sun rising over the early morning fog clinging to a field on the edge of campus near where the rugby team sometimes practices. His ivory skin nearly glowed in the eerie pre-dawn light and he seemed ethereal; disappearing against the white of the fog clinging around him. Only his shock of black curls added contrast to his crouching form. He held himself so still; so gracefully yet precariously perched, like a rare creature that only emerged in the odd, _not-quite-here-nor-there_ hours. 

His focus was so intense and determined as he waited with his camera held to his eye that John wanted nothing more than to have those eyes on him, to know the intensity of their piercing stare boring into him. But before he could muster the courage to disturb the entrancing moment, the form had soundlessly leapt down from the wall and trotted away across the field with long, determined strides until the thick fog swallowed him up.

He had asked after him a bit and been increasingly intrigued by what he learned about the talented younger man. The photography project had been a serendipitous opportunity to test if these novel feelings were some sort of anomaly that would pass or if there was something _more_ there. So far the attraction had only deepened.

“No French at all then,” Sherlock sighs. “I am not very good at rules John,” he says matter-of-factly, sliding sideways until he is lying on the couch. John looks up from searching the drawers for a corkscrew.

“Yeah, I'm getting that,” John smiles over at him. 

“Any _other rules_ you'd like me to willfully ignore, John?” Sherlock says flicking a dismissive hand in the air. John grins. 

“I'll let you know,” he replies fondly. Dragging his gaze over the brilliant and enigmatic young man he realizes no one has ever seen this side of him. _Drunk Sherlock_ who lets his shields down and acts silly, lethargic and horny. He pushes his last bit of reluctance aside and resolves to enjoy this rare experience. If a brilliant, gorgeous genius wants to flirt with him, who is he to argue? He grabs the corkscrew and the bottle and marches to the sitting room, stopping in front of Sherlock.

“Alright,” John says authoritatively. “You're my friend, right, Sherlock?” He looks down at the younger man who slowly blinks up at him.

“I am?” He sounds shocked and breathless as he sits up.

“Yeah, Sherlock. You're my friend,” John confirms smiling at him warmly. Sherlock slowly nods his head gazing up at John with wide and bright eyes that make him seem exceptionally young. 

“Alright,” he continues decisively. “As your friend, Sherlock, I'm going to tell you that people aren't quite _themselves_ when they're drunk.” He holds the wine bottle between his knees and begins twisting the corkscrew into the top. 

“I know _that,_ John,” Sherlock snaps with annoyance heavy in his tone. “I've not lived a completely sheltered life. I've been around drunk people. I'm aware of the effects of alcohol... In fact, I can tell you the precise physiological impact of the substance on the various systems-”

“Alright,” John holds up a hand in a placating gesture. “I believe you… but as far as the _practical experience_ of actually _being drunk._.. this is your first time, so I just want you to understand that… we aren't really ourselves right now, but that's… _fine_... people do stupid things when they're drunk… not what they'd usually do… it's fine. _All fine_ , Sherlock.” He pours a glass for both of them and looks up at Sherlock from under his eyelashes. 

Sherlock tips his head and studies John’s face. His eyes are sparkling and he has that crooked smile that makes Sherlock certain he is missing some subtext. He narrows his eyes and nods anyways. John’s smile grows and something like relief flickers across his expression. Sherlock sighs feeling relieved as well that he had somehow managed to select the right answer without comprehending the question.

“Pass the time? A game then,” John says pushing the glass of white wine towards Sherlock and collapsing to sit cross legged on the floor beside the table. He takes a generous sip of the wine and hums appreciatively as he savors it, rolling it around in his mouth. It has a lush, fruity and spicy flavor with no bitterness.

“This is _good_. You might actually like this one,” John says lifting his glass towards Sherlock and nodding his head to indicate he should try his own. 

Sherlock picks up his champagne glass and rolls the stem between his fingers. He is still struggling to comprehend the conversation they’ve just had when all his processors seem to be offline. John called him a _friend_ and that makes him feel woozy and exhilarated all at once, like the moment right before a drop off a really big hill on a rollercoaster. 

He takes a sip of the liquid and rolls it around on his tongue. He closes his eyes and savors the wine’s impressively intense flavors. It has a creamy texture, elements of pear and melon with hints of peach leaf and gingery spice, and a long, smooth finish. 

When he opens his eyes John is staring at him, his lips thrust forward and his eyes narrowed and heated. The way he is moving and flexing his lips is as if he is trying to taste it all by proxy. He laughs and looks away with an expression of embarrassment when he sees Sherlock gazing back at him. 

“Sorry... You're very… _expressive_ when you taste things you like.” John touches his lips with his fingers. “It's very… _appealing_ ,” he says quieter as his eyes slide back to meet Sherlock’s. Sherlock is not sure what to say to that, so he looks down at his glass. He tries to track the erratic skipping of his heart a moment before he leans forward to place the glass on the table. 

“I think if I have much more I may pass out, John,” he says honestly. John hums and pours himself a second glass. 

“The thought _had_ crossed my mind,” he admits. Sherlock eyes him suspiciously. John shrugs. “A sleeping Sherlock is a Sherlock who isn't _willfully breaking the rules,_ ” he says with a soft chuckle. “Which, to be honest, is less _dangerous_ for everyone.”

“Would you like me to go to sleep now, John?” Sherlock says reluctantly, staring down at his own lap as he fidgets with his hands. John has already made it clear that he would rather not stay. He supposes it would be polite to go to sleep if his friend would prefer not to have to tend to him. John looks at him for a long moment, then tips his head.

“I'm discovering I have an abnormal attraction to danger,” he says with a precocious grin, raising his glass to Sherlock, then downing it all.

“A game?” John inquires again. His eyebrows raised.

“Depends on the game.” Sherlock says with a shrug. He leans his head back to rest on the back of the sofa trying to return to the warm and calming swath of liquor he'd previously felt. John studies the long column of smooth skin of his friend's neck and wonders how it would feel to brush lips against it. He clears his throat.

“Truth or dare?” John offers.

“Sounds dull,” Sherlock grumbles. John shakes his head.

“Right up your alley. Learn a new fact about me or get to make me do something.” Sherlock opens his eyes halfway and looks over at John. This provides a tempting opportunity to explore the extent of John's ability to elicit new sensations from his transport. After all, he had taken on this photography project with John with the intention of discovering why this particular young man, with his unique combination of elements, made him feel things that no one else ever has. 

John's eyes are turning bleary again. His movements are slower and looser, his shoulders relaxing more. Sherlock wants to see those muscled shoulders bare again.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes.

“But,” John holds up a finger and waves it back and forth. “I’d get to do the same to you. We take _turns_. Only fair.” John spreads his hands out, palms up, then interlaces his fingers in front of himself on the table. He smiles gently. “I'll go easy on you.” 

Sherlock pulls his head forward to look John over more carefully. His eyelids are now hanging heavier over his dark blue eyes as he grins up at Sherlock. 

“What makes you think I want you to _go easy on me_ , John?” Sherlock challenges.

John’s eyes widen a little. He chews on his bottom lip in a boyishly charming manner that makes the photographer's insides curl tighter. He _had_ said he liked danger, hadn't he?

"Be hard on you... Can do." John's face crinkles into a devilish smile.

“Yes,” Sherlock repeats, a current of anticipation rushing under his skin now. 

“Good,” John beams. “You can start. Just ask me _‘Truth or Dare’_ and then I'll choose.”

“Truth or Dare, John?” Sherlock is now intensely focused on his companion. He is leaning forward slightly, hands resting on the tops of his thighs, eyes narrowed and flicking to all John's various parts to try to gather data.

“Dare,” John says with a knavish expression.

“I dare you to take your shirt off,” Sherlock says in a rush. John lifts his eyebrows and his lips slide into a sly smile.

“Can be a bit more _inventive_... You’ve already seen me with my shirt off,” he says with a chuckle and a pleased grin as he easily shucks his jumper off, having left his button-up in the back room of the bar when he found the re-buttoning too difficult to manage.

Sherlock runs his eyes over the muscles of those strong yet relaxed shoulders and arms. He drinks in the sight of his tight chest and abdomen. His fingers dig into the tops of his thighs as he sits back and lets the sensation of the heat and pressure wash through him again. It is sharp and potent and definitely addictive.

“My turn. _Truth or Dare_ , Sherlock?” John grins mischievously. Sherlock blinks at him a moment. 

“Truth?”

“Alright... You’ll have to answer 100% _truthfully,_ ” John clarifies. Sherlock hesitates, then nods.

“Do you find me attractive?” Sherlock suddenly feels scalding hot. He sucks in a deep breath and curses his alcohol-addled brain that failed to anticipate the risk in being required to tell the truth. He covers his face with his hands and flops onto the couch sideways wishing he could disappear altogether.

John sighs and silently scorns himself. _‘Sloppy handling. Rushed the play, Watson.’_

“Take a dare instead?” he offers. Sherlock nods eagerly from behind his hands.

“Fair is fair... I dare you to take off _your_ shirt.” Sherlock hesitates for a moment, taking deliberately slow breaths. Then his hands move to quickly unbutton his purple shirt. He shrugs it off, swiftly laying down on his back and pressing his palms together so his fingers are steepled at his lips, as if thinking, but John suspects it is to cover his chest as much as possible without being obvious in doing so. 

John studies the newly exposed flesh as much as his position and the obstruction of limbs will allow. His chest is as pale and smooth as the rest of him, but there is more muscle there than he anticipated. Some of his lower ribs are pronounced, showing through the skin and his stomach dips in. A black trail of hair starting slightly above his navel makes a line down his center and disappears into his dark jeans that are still tightly clinging to an obvious erection. John adjusts himself, wishing his jeans were not so tight. With any luck Sherlock will dare him to take off his trousers next. 

“Truth or Dare?” Sherlock asks in a tight voice.

“Dare,” John responds without hesitation.

“Go out onto the balcony for three minutes,” Sherlock says coolly. 

John stands up and looks out at the darkened balcony. That definitely was _not_ the dare he was hoping for.

“It's Autumn, Sherlock,” he protests. 

“I am aware. That is the dare, John,” Sherlock replies tonelessly, not opening his eyes. He needs space and time without John's eyes on him to bring himself back under control. Though he is also perhaps a little vengeful over being called out as well.

John sighs in resignation. He walks to the glass door and grips the handle, bracing himself before he slides it open. The first stinging gust of air knocks the wind right out of him. He steps through, closes the door behind himself and immediately begins counting. 

The view really is spectacular but he hardly notices as he jumps about vigorously rubbing at his bare arms and chest. At exactly one hundred and eighty seconds John bursts back through the door.

“Bloody hell! That was _cold_!” he exclaims shutting the balcony door behind himself and relishing in the warmth of the flat against his numb skin. He jumps up and down a moment in place then suddenly bolts across the room and leaps onto the couch landing on top of his friend. Sherlock lets out an undignified squeak of protest against the sudden cold weight crashing down on top of him. His eyes snap wide open and his hands automatically come up to meet John, gripping those meaty shoulders.

“Come on, give me some of your warmth,” John laughs burrowing down against Sherlock. 

“Off! You're freezing!” Sherlock pants a protest, weakly pushing against the heavier man on top of him with a half-hearted effort, fingers flexing against muscle. 

“Never,” John laughs, burying his face over Sherlock's shoulder and clutching him tighter. 

“Poor sportsmanship, Captain,” Sherlock scorns. John is straddling his hips, effectively pinning his lower half down with feet hooked around his legs. Their hands tangle as John tries to bat Sherlock's away and press down but Sherlock pushes against his shoulders, managing to lift him an arm's length off his own body. John hums, impressed at his companion's hidden strength, but he tenses and braces his legs, forcing himself back down, overpowering with sheer strength Sherlock’s feeble resistance. Sherlock’s arms give out and he lets out a grunt as John crashes down on him, chest to chest. John lets out a dark, victorious chuckle and wriggles himself deeper into the thinner man's body laid out below him.

"Mmm. Warm," he taunts.

The cold is bleeding off of John now and the heat of their bodies is building as they continue to wrestle a little, Sherlock trying to gain leverage to push him off and John easily deflecting. At last Sherlock shudders and sighs, relaxing. He goes still as his senses gather John in. He is breathing heavily from the struggle, his heart pounding in ears as he draws in stuttering lungs full of the other man's intoxicating scent. He finds the sensation of the rugby captain’s bare, thickly muscled chest pressed against his own is both grounding and stimulating. The mix of hard muscle and softer flesh and smooth and lightly furred surfaces providing an almost overwhelming amount of new sensory data. The muscles of the captain’s chest are flexing and relaxing with each breath and the gusts of warm, wet air by Sherlock’s neck are making his hairs shift, causing a tingling sensation to creep down his neck and into his spine. 

John is shivering, but it is not because of the dissipated cold anymore. The tension of muscles and breathing pattern speaks of excitement and restraint. Sherlock shifts slightly beneath his weight and this elicits a groan from the man above as if the movement pains him somehow. Sherlock freezes.

“This alright?” John asks softly, his mouth turning in towards Sherlock so cold lips barely brush the shell of his ear. His hot breath makes fire and ice ooze down the younger man’s spine and radiate through his body.

Sherlock isn't sure what _this_ is, but he nods slowly; feeling the odd combination of loose pliancy and eager want. His warm hands come up to rest, gently sprawled on John's chilled back. 

“You’re beautiful, you know,” John breathes against his neck. Sherlock shivers and sighs, sinking further into the couch. He is melting into some form of barely cohesive liquid in John's strong embrace. Everything inside him is tumbling dizzily. His breathing is coming faster now but it still seems like it is not enough oxygen. 

“John,” he breathes with an edge of desperation in his tone. He wants more without even knowing precisely what that means.

“Sherlock,” John says with that authoritative edge. ‘I'm going to take care of you now.” He runs a hot and wet open mouth from Sherlock’s ear, down his neck with the faintest pressure. “Is that alright?” He breathes into the base of his throat, his lips hovering.

Sherlock is helplessly drowning in him. His powerful body, the gentle protectiveness and possessiveness of his commanding tone, his confidence and the intensity of his desire. All these things in one miraculous being. In this moment Sherlock is aware he is irrationally and immeasurably in love with John and all he can do is surrender.

“Yes, John... _Please_ ,” Sherlock insists, his hands tightening on John's back. The sound from John now is something between a hum and a growl and Sherlock feels the vibration skitter along every nerve in his body. He is certain he has never been so aware of every square centimeter of flesh covering his transport as now that it all seems to be screaming in a chorus of need for John.

John's strong, calloused hands drift over his rib cage and come to rest on his hips, searing through the fabric of his jeans. He shifts that thinner frame easily so that their bodies are perfectly aligned and holds firmly as he drags his pelvis in a long slow grind against Sherlock’s. He hunches, ducking his head to simultaneously suck on his collar bone. 

Firecrackers go off in quick succession in Sherlock’s body and he throws his head back and digs his fingers into the strong back of the man above him. His body arches as much as it can in the rugby captain’s firm grip. He is aware he is babbling in various languages curses and prayers muddling together until his tongue at last finds the only worthy word; the most beautiful and profound word he can think of.

“John. John. John.” He imbues it with all the exhilaration and devastated awe that he is capable. 

“God that's gorgeous, Sherlock,” John breathes raggedly, his mouth hungrily sucking and tasting that long, pale throat as he loosens his grip and holds himself firmly in place above Sherlock to allow the younger man's body to arch and thrust against himself in desperate, erratic motions. “You're perfect,” he says in awe.

John hears a tapping from above and to the right and at first he ignores it, instead dipping to lick into the hollow created at the base of Sherlock’s neck above his sternum by the strain of tension in his muscles. The unmistakable strength of his lithe body and the slightly musky flavor of him is thrilling and intoxicating on a whole new level. John has no doubts at all now, _he wants all of Sherlock_. 

John holds those thin, muscular hips still again and grinds himself against the firm body beneath with a precise and controlled movement, amazed at the intense symphony of sensations burning through his body as their erections slide together through their clothes. 

The tapping comes again; closer, louder and somehow more insistent. John lifts enough to glance over and freezes as he takes in the sight of a tall, thin man in a posh suit leaning casually on an umbrella and looking rather annoyed. Sherlock is still writhing beneath him, breathing his name with fingers clawing against his back but John pushes up to look the stranger over.

“Sherlock?” John says tonelessly.

“Yes, John. Please-” thin hands pull at the rugby captain, trying to encourage his continued ministrations. 

“Sherlock. Someone is here.” Sherlock freezes, his eyes fixed on John rather than looking to see who has joined them. 

“Should have left a sock on the doorknob,” John smiles in amusement as his gaze meets with cold, brown, almost black eyes. The stranger’s chin tips down and his eyes narrow, a thin, humourless smile gracing his face. Then he appears to ignore John and direct his gaze to the barely visible Sherlock.

“When I saw you had entered your access code I thought that perhaps there was some _trouble_ , as you are loathe to use my resources unless you've no other choice... I certainly was not expecting _this._ ” The voice is smooth, pithy and controlled. The stranger makes a little tsking sound as his eyes flick to John briefly.

“Sod off, Mycroft,” Sherlock growls venomously.

John’s eyes widen realizing that this is the older brother Sherlock had mentioned; the one whose very nice flat and expensive wine they have been shamelessly helping themselves to. He feels suddenly like a teenager caught by a parent snogging after obviously throwing a party. He pushes up more so that he is sitting, straddling Sherlock’s hips. “It - It is _not_ what it looks like,” John says running a hand through his hair and glancing around.

Sherlock’s hands snap up and grab John on each hip by the belt loops of his jeans. He pulls down with surprising force, causing John to nearly fall forward on top of him.

“It's _exactly_ what it looks like and none of your concern, _brother mine._ ” Sherlock’s voice is dripping with equal parts honey and acid. “Sod off,” he growls.

Mycroft lifts the umbrella off the floor and casually inspects the tip. His tone is icy and nonplussed. “Letting some plebeian neanderthal get you drunk and take your virtue... whatever would _Mummy_ say?” 

John can't help the low growl that rumbles from his chest and the way his body tenses and his fists and jaw clench at the infuriating insult of himself and the thinly veiled threat against Sherlock. He glances at Sherlock and there is a definite heat and desire in his eyes as he gives a little nod as if to encourage John to pummel his brother. The young photographer has never seen something quite so intensely appealing as John furious; ready and eager to demolish Mycroft. The skinny man in an expensive suit merely lifts an eyebrow.

“Do you wish to prove to me how _wrong_ I am about you being a _neanderthal_ \- John, was it? - by inflicting some sort of _violence_ upon me?” The patronizing tone slips into something mollifying. "This is a _family matter_ , John."

John looks back down at Sherlock and the younger man looks deflated. He doesn't meet John's eyes as he nods minutely, sighs and releases his grip on John's jeans.

The rugby captain feels both men's eyes on him as he climbs off of Sherlock, grabs his jumper and pulls it on. Sherlock's heated stare is at war with the icy, calculated stare of his older brother. He starts to move towards Sherlock, but the imposing, suit-clad man clears his throat in irritation and taps his umbrella against the floor impatiently. 

“Drink lots of water and have some paracetamol tablets sitting out for yourself for when you wake in the morning.” John's voice drops lower as he takes a step forward. “Text me,” he commands. Sherlock looks down and away, his jaw tightening. 

John straightens his shoulders and marches past the taller man that is twirling his umbrella against the ground. 

“John,” the man says curtly as he passes.

“Mycroft,” John growls in return. 

He barely has the door shut before he hears the booming voices of the ensuing argument.


	7. Dark Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tracks down Sherlock and tries to suss out how the younger man is feeling about their intimate moment. After seeing Sherlock's photographs John begins to think there is hope that the photographer may feel something for him as well. He makes up his mind to give wooing Sherlock _'the old college try'_.

“Shut the door,” Sherlock barks as the thin sliver of light from the opened door spills over the contents of the small photo developing room and illuminates his back. He stands stooped over the worktop against the opposite wall from the entrance. 

“Idiot,” he grumbles as the door quickly snaps shut. He hunches back over a large metal contraption with an eye piece that looks like a microscope, adjusting the knobs in the eerie, red safelight glow. He suddenly goes completely still and his back straightens. Not turning, he tips his head to the side slightly and directs his voice over his shoulder towards the entrance; his tone is deep, dangerous.

“I can hear you breathing. Would have been better _for you_ if you’d not panicked and chosen to close yourself _outside_ instead. Now you're enclosed with a man whose three weeks worth of work you nearly ruined with your imbecilic failure to heed a clearly posted sign,” Sherlock snaps haughtily.

There is a pause. A breath is exhaled slowly, and then a low and warm tenor at last cuts smoothly through the small room.

“I'll take my chances,” John says. Sherlock sucks in an audible breath. His hands tighten on the knob of the machine before him and his back stiffens with such a jerk that his brown curls bounce a little. A tense silence falls over the dark room. 

“John,” Sherlock says at last in a neutral tone; his voice cool, smooth and empty of the tension obviously thrumming through his body . 

“Sherlock.” There is a careful smile in John’s voice. The usual amusement has a tension making the word's edges cut sharply. “So _this_ is where you’ve been hiding out?” He drawls. 

Four days have passed since the evening when Sherlock's brother waltzed in on their intimate moment, bringing an unpleasant and abrupt halt to an otherwise spectacular evening. Since then Sherlock all but vanished. He hadn't texted nor responded to the rugby player’s repeated texts and he had not attended any of his classes... not that the genius really needed to. 

“Working,” Sherlock corrects. “I _do_ have a project to complete.” His tone, that is no doubt meant to be imperious, comes out stiff and diffident.

John waits a beat, looking him over. The young brunet has yet to turn to him, his hand is fiercely gripping the little metal dial jutting from the odd contraption before him and every inch of the long, lean line of his body is drawn taut as if he expects to need to fight or flee at any moment. John lets out a long breath. In spite of the photographer’s somewhat frosty demeanor, just being in the same room, being able to see him, hear him and feel his presence, makes things settle inside him. 

“Right,” John says with a bit of uncertainty, shifting his weight and rubbing at the back of his neck. He glances up to an industrial size metal air vent hanging over the large worktop in the center of the room. A grid of thin wires with metal clips holds photos that have been developed and are now drying. In each of the various sized prints he recognizes parts of himself from moments spent together throughout the previous two weeks. A warmth suffuses his chest as he vividly recalls all the moments surrounding each frozen instant of time. 

“As I recall I have something to do with that project,” John says lightly; the smile clear in his voice. The photographer's body relaxes minutely. 

“Yes, John,” He says, his tone indicating that it is ridiculous that John is stating something so blatantly obvious.

John studies the elegant curve of Sherlock’s back. He is wearing a pale blue shirt, tinted purple in the room’s unusual red lighting. It reminds John of the purple shirt he was wearing their night together. For a moment he is lost in the memory of Sherlock looking up at him as their bodies slid against each other; the look of passion, desire and utter devastation (that so accurately reflected his own internal state) written all over those ethereal features. It makes him ache all over in a way he would have thought impossible weeks earlier. 

_Sherlock Holmes has certainly revised John’s definitions of what is impossible._

These past four days had been a slow descent into a brooding darkness for the usually easygoing and jovial rugby captain. 

The morning after he left Sherlock in Mycroft’s care he awoke feeling as if he were still a little buzzed. He immediately shot off a text to his friend to check how he was recovering and realized when he hit send that the feeling vibrating through his body was excitement because of the young man on the receiving end of that text. He couldn’t help but smile remembering everything that had happened the night before. Everything until the moment he saw the prick in a suit anyways.

That day he walked around only half paying mind to his immediate surroundings, constantly glancing at his phone for messages that never came and scanning all around for a glimpse of dark fluffy hair over pale skin and piercing eyes. 

After three days he soberly faced the fact that this brief glimmer of a relationship, burning fast and bright but extinguished far too soon, left him feeling more heartbroken than any relationship that had come before. Aside from the sharp sting of the unrealized potential of everything spectacular they could be together, he also couldn’t escape the constant low key ache at the absence of his dear friend. Sherlock was, first and foremost, _his friend_. The moments they spent together over the last few weeks shone brilliantly against a life that seemed downright dull in comparison.The idea that he may have foolishly ruined that friendship by wanting more makes John feel a bit sick and he now rubs at his chest absently as he watches Sherlock shift uneasily with a posture that is defensive striving for indifference. 

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock snaps.

“Sorry, what?”

“You are thinking too loud. It's distracting. Stop,” Sherlock bites off irritably. John tilts his head a moment then laughs.

“Yeah. Suppose I was,” he admits with a little chuckle. He is grateful for the darkness to hide his blush. “If it is any comfort, I was thinking of you.” Sherlock’s head does a tight shake back and forth but he doesn’t elaborate on why John thinking about him is not good. John sighs.

He pushes off the door to move slowly around the worktop in the center of the room while gazing up at the pictures hanging from a rack to dry above, studying them in the dim red light. 

There is something almost tender in the images. Something in the softness and warmth of the light running through each photograph that has an almost tangible sense of reverence. It makes an ache creep into John’s chest and press down on his lungs. He wants to believe that it is some reflection of Sherlock’s inner state, of some hidden affection for himself, but he can’t be sure it isn’t just his own desires seeing things where there is nothing. 

He has no idea how the younger man feels about their intimate encounter or their association in general. He is acutely aware that he may not mean the same to Sherlock as the young man has come to mean to him. After all, what does a spectacular, genius photographer want with a stupid rugby player?

Perhaps their drunken tumble is simply an embarrassing and regrettable mistake in the younger man’s mind. 

He lets a contemplative hum roll from his chest. He turns to look at the enigmatic genius that has been spending his hours ensconced here in the dark, surrounded by the cold, flat imagery of his bare flesh. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly as he decides to make a strategic move.

“Thought you shot digital, these are film prints,” he says conversationally. Sherlock turns slightly. The pleasure and surprise at John’s unusual acumen evident in his voice. 

“I developed a method to convert and print digital images. It is a complex, time consuming, multi-step process.” His voice takes on a sharp edge. “You nearly rendered useless my latest film strip with your untimely entrance.” 

“Yeah, sorry,” John says shifting to lean his hips back against the worktop in the center of the room. Sherlock gives a dismissive flick of his wrist. John is directly behind Sherlock now and he can smell his unique scent over the chemical baths. 

“Why,” John inquires quietly, staring at Sherlock’s back. He can almost make out the flex and coil of muscles beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. Sherlock tilts his head to the side as if trying to understand the question. “It just seems like a lot of trouble to go through for…” 

“Film prints provide a different…”

“Feeling?” John offers hopefully. Sherlock swallows, disliking how nebulous and unquantifiable that word is. 

“They have subtle properties that create a different subconscious impression… and using manipulation techniques allows me greater... creative control to produce the final image.” John blinks. That tells him nothing but that Sherlock is very invested in his artistic process. 

“Right… _manipulate_ and _control_ to capture a feeling. I think I get it now,” John's voice is tight and threaded with darkness. It stings to think that after all that has passed between them John is nothing more than a muse for Sherlock to use in service of creating the desired effect in his art and then to discard as irrelevant once this project is done. Sherlock half turns towards him, his body tensing again.

John hops up to sit on the central worktop, sliding back and facing Sherlock. He studies that long lean back and grapples with the tangle of emotions in silence. 

If he is honest with himself the past few weeks have quite possibly been the best in his life. He enjoyed every moment in Sherlock’s company. The younger man has an unparalleled sharp intellect, a delightfully dark sense of humor all set in contrast to a sometimes achingly sweet naivete and innocence. Even knowing what he now knows about his fleeting role in Sherlock’s life, he cannot feel anything but an overwhelming fondness for him. 

As he brings his eyes back into focus on Sherlock, bathed in the red safelight glow, he can see the young photographer is fruitlessly trying to focus on adjusting the machinery. His elegant hands repeatedly turn the knobs one way, only to turn it back the other. He is obviously keenly aware of John's silent presence in the room.

“That whole digital conversion thing… it's _brilliant_ ,” John states honestly. Sherlock lets out a slow breath but says nothing. His hand stills on the machine. He shifts a little uncomfortably, then begins in an overly formal tone.

“I would like to apologize for my brother's behaviour.” Sherlock says stiffly. He is surprised by John's answering chuckle.

“You're not the only one with family problems, Sherlock.” His voice sounds tired. “A protective big brother… I get it… Though the abduction was an interesting twist.”

“He didn't,” Sherlock growls. John smiles and shakes his head at the memory. 

“Ah… Yeah, he did… Dramatic blighter… Didn't punch him but it was a near thing.” Sherlock hums at that and John can feel the shift in the air of an unseen smile. His body relaxes a little. 

“Did he offer to pay you to spy on me?”

“Yeah,” John chuckles shaking his head.

“Did you take it?” John lifts his head to stare at Sherlock’s back. Even if John was the sort of man to take such a bribe, which he certainly isn't, he'd actually have to be spending a significant amount of time with Sherlock to make it worth Mycroft's while. That seems unlikely at this juncture.

“No,” John says thoughtfully.

“Shame. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time,” Sherlock says flatly. John tilts his head, considering the implications of that reply. It would seem to indicate an expectation of time spent together beyond two days from now when Sherlock's project is due. 

A breath of hope lifts his spirit a little even as the air in the room seems to grow heavier. Sherlock isn't moving. His head is tipped to the side as if he is listening intently for any noise from John. 

John looks up at the hanging photos. He never would have made it this far in life if he wasn't willing to work hard for things he, objectively speaking, had no right to believe he could possibly obtain; be it due to his status, stature or the circumstances of his upbringing. 

A switch flips in John's head and it all becomes startlingly clear. There will be no more wondering, waiting and hoping. The photographer may walk out of his life in two days with only a portfolio of photos to remember him by but, in the meantime, the rugby captain intends to do everything in his power to woo the young genius; to win him over, to win his heart. Sherlock is about to learn that John Watson is a force of nature when he sets his mind to something. He is nearly unstoppable when he is determined to have something and now he is going to do his damnedest to win over Sherlock Holmes

_One last play for it all, Watson._

“You’re missing some pieces,” He says softly. Sherlock clears his throat and tries to lean forward again to look through the eyepiece. 

“Yes. I am sure I can come up with some sufficiently highfalutin, artistic reasoning that will justify that to the avant-garde masses. 

“But you won’t have realize your vision,” John drawls gently. Sherlock swallows audibly. 

“Yes. Well, things don't always go according to plan... and we don’t always get what we want.” 

John slides off his perch and steps forward, standing close enough so that Sherlock can feel the heat radiating off him, his breath ruffling the shirt near his shoulder. “Well certainly not, if we don't at least try,” John says in a deeper voice, laced with the slightest suggestion of something _more_. He can hear the quickness of the younger man’s breath. He waits for Sherlock to relax or give some indication that this is OK, that he wants more. He doesn't push it though, just feels out the defenses. When Sherlock does not relax, John steps back to lean against the worktop again. 

“Besides I know you well enough to know that you won't settle for less than perfect,” he says more conversationally. 

Sherlock whips around on John so quickly that the rugby player straightens. His gray-green eyes are intense and searching in the surreal glow as he studies the blond, scrutinizes him really. His head is cocked slightly to the side and his brow is furrowed as if John has just revealed himself to be a very fascinating and baffling mystery. A thrill shoots along John's spine at having those eyes on him at last. A smile creeps onto his face. 

_The game is on._

After a moment, the photographer's face relaxes a little. He takes a small step forward and they are suddenly very close. 

“What do you propose, John” The rugby captain stands there a moment looking up into those sharp, challenging eyes.

“What pieces are you missing?”

“Ears, mouth, back and…” Sherlock’s eyes dart down to John's groin, then snap back up. “Other areas.”

John thrusts his lips forward to hide a smile. 

“Come to my dorm room. Tonight. You can get the remaining photos,” John offers. Sherlock considers it a long moment. John thinks he can almost hear the mental calculations, gears whirring and clicking as things snap into place.

“8:00pm.” Sherlock finally states. 

“Perfect,” John says. And before Sherlock can change his mind, he moves swiftly across the room and slips back out the door.


	8. Lovely Way to Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up as Sherlock comes to John's hall (dorm) room to finish his photography project and John pulls out all the stops to try to win Sherlock over before they part ways.
> 
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> **Listen to this song to get the mood of the dance:[Michael Buble's _Fever_](http://youtu.be/OkIvRbtw1EU?list=PLdakRkpsmtJFJUZRBdf39azT4KxJoTa1c)**

When he hears the knock John pulls open the door a bit too vigorously and vainly hopes that Sherlock doesn’t read all over his face the fact that he has been standing there eagerly waiting for ten minutes. 

His eyes meet Sherlock’s and he freezes, caught in the wide-eyed stare of pale blue slicing into him. All the air leaves his lungs at once. The sensation of a crushing blow to the center of his chest makes him lean heavily against the open door to steady himself.

Sherlock's posture is overly rigid. The fingers of the hand grasping the strap of his camera bag, slung over his shoulder, stroke absently in quick figure eights. His jaw is clenched with determination in contrast to his startlingly soft and innocent eyes that make everything inside John feel uncomfortably tight. 

Sherlock breaks the hold over him by glancing over his shoulder into the room, looking both impatient and uncertain about if he is going to be let in.

John gives his head a shake and clears his throat. He sweeps his tongue over his lips.

“Ah, yeah… come in.” He ducks his head bashfully and steps backward, out of the doorway, to let Sherlock into the cozy room.

Sherlock steps in and John shuts the door. He wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans as Sherlock walks into the center of the room and glances around; gathering in untold amounts of new data on him. It feels strangely more intimate than anything they have done so far and John has been half naked and rutting against the younger man. 

John squares his shoulders and his eyes sweep assessingly up the man before him. He is wearing black leather dress shoes and the same tight, dark wash jeans that he wore on their night out together. The memory of those jeans _(underneath his hands, pressed beneath his groin and thighs)_ makes flickers of heat skitter up John’s back and neck and for an instant he can almost feel those long fingers digging insistently into the flesh of his shoulders as they had on the couch. 

John sweeps his eyes up to his light, gray button up shirt that contrasts deliciously with the creamy white skin of his long neck; it's length is emphasized by the way his top two buttons are undone. The sleeves are once again rolled to above the elbow. His dark brown curls are perfectly styled, looking extra soft and John’s hand twitches at his side with the overwhelming desire to run his fingers through it. 

He pushes that thought aside and resists the urge to shift nervously by marching into the room and standing next to Sherlock. To be in his presence and proximity is both grounding and exhilarating; familiar yet with a new edge of possibility and danger. John tries to let the game calm slip over him; the cool, hardened focus and strategic precision that naturally takes over when the match begins and the pressure mounts.

“It’s not much, but it is home… _for now,”_ John says casually with a warm smile. There is an obvious discrepancy between his living arrangements and Mycroft’s posh flat, but he is not one to be embarrassed about those things. “My desk. My bed,” he says gesturing to the left side of the room. “That stuff over there is Mike’s,” he says, gesturing to the right. “We share the mini-fridge though... Drink?” John moves towards a small silver fridge against the far wall of the room, glancing back at Sherlock.

“Doubling up. _Frugal_ ,” Sherlock states flatly.

“Right,” John confirms with a crooked smile. “Hope to have saved enough to get a nice flat next year. Though, still might have to share." He shrugs and gazes into the fridge.

Sherlock lets out a thoughtful hum and studies John’s half of the meager possessions with narrowed eyes. There is not much in the way of decorations. John’s heavy oak desk has a speaker dock for his phone and some miscellaneous medical textbooks neatly arranged on it. His bed is narrow, his duvet is a simple navy blue and his pillow is a cream color. There is also one small, rectangular Union Jack pillow on it. Above the head of his bed there is a blocky wooden JW that he carved with his grandfather's help when he was twelve. 

On the wall next to his bed is a large cork board with several neatly organized photographs. Most are photos of him and his rugby team. There is one old faded photo of him, his sister and his mom from when he was age ten. Also pinned to the board are a few hand drawn sketches he created from his anatomy books; the brain, the heart, the lungs. All are meticulously labeled. When he has trouble falling asleep he studies them. 

“I may know of a little place, in a prime location,” Sherlock mutters and the moment he says it his face flushes and he looks a little bewildered by his own words. John lifts an eyebrow in an expression of surprise and intrigue.

“Yeah? That'd be-” 

“On second thought," Sherlock interrupts, "It already has one tenant and seeing as how you wish to take a flat in conjunction with _Mike_ -” Sherlock says the name as if it somehow fits wrong in his mouth as he surveys John's roommate's possessions. “This particular flat, which only has need for one additional tenant, is _not_ optimal for your needs.” Sherlock is looking anywhere but at John. His eyes sweep the room as he shifts in a little, energetic dance. His high cheekbones are tinted pink and his lips are darkened by the flush. John lifts his eyebrows and turns more fully towards him.

“Mike's a good mate, but we’re not moving out together. He's planning on staying here through his third year... So… yeah... I'd be interested ” John turns back towards the fridge. “Though not sure who'd want me for a flatmate,” he says chuckling lightly.

Sherlock swallows and runs his fingers through his hair a bit roughly; flustered and frustrated with himself. He mentally scorns himself for giving into the enticing compulsion to offer everything up to John. He wants to recover their lapsed friendship but he is finding it hard enough to keep himself properly constrained to friendship appropriate thoughts and actions now. In one glorious moment he had known what it might be like to be loved and desired by the captivating rugby captain and he can't undo the hold that knowledge has over him. To live with John, to be his flatmate and be so close to him day in and day out while trying to manage this attraction, would surely end disastrously.

Mycroft's voice echos down the halls of his mind palace replaying his harsh words from their argument the night his overbearing sibling had found John straddling his more than willing body.

>   
>  _‘You _are_ aware, **baby brother,** that once most young men reach a certain level of inebriation they will find nearly **anything** that moves attractive? No doubt you noticed the effect of imbibing on your own transport.’_ Mycroft’s sneer of disdain for his brother’s stupidity had been clear in his biting tone. _’Is it not logical to believe that this young rugby captain just found you the most convenient warm body?”_  
> 

As much as he had hated to admit that his brother may be right, the following morning he concluded it _was_ the most logical analysis of all the facts. It stung to accept this as truth, but John had warned him that ‘people _aren’t themselves_ when they are drunk’ and that they ‘do things that they _wouldn’t do otherwise.’_

Humiliated by his own lapse in judgement and this unrelenting infatuation, he took the most dignified and rational course of action afforded him; he tried to cut this cancer of _feeling_ out. He resolved to sever all ties and walk away from John. Perhaps then he could forget the burn of this new, fierce desire that had been as abruptly realized as it had been cruelly snatched out of his reach.

He had suffered through three days of this new strategy but the moment John came into the dark room he knew that staying away would never work. Even with the ever present ache of loss, Sherlock had to accept that he just felt _better_ with John close to him. John's words of honest admiration, the simple acceptance and the aspiring doctor's surprising intelligence were unlike anything Sherlock had ever known. He realized he had been slowly withering without him. 

His attraction is apparently as undeniable as gravity. He is in orbit around John like a planet circling a sun; too far away and he will be cast off into the cold nothingness but too close and he will surely burn up. 

Sherlock lets out his breath slowly and tries to center himself again. If he gets through this photography session with their friendship intact, surely he can turn the man from wanting to become his flatmate by making him realize what it would be like to live with him; the experiments, the violin, the body parts in the fridge. _No one wants Sherlock for a flatmate._ He tries to relax and focus.

“Where shall I…?” Sherlock looks around at his options. John pulls at his ear, glancing at the room as well. 

“Well, yeah...There’s pretty much just the desk... or… the bed…” John smiles apologetically and shrugs casually. “Wherever you’re comfortable, Sherlock.” 

John turns away to find the bottle opener and Sherlock glances from John's desk, to his bed and back to John. His eyes linger on the stout rugby player’s broad shoulders, shifting as he hunches over Mike’s desk. He breathes in and out slowly, worrying his lip with his teeth. 

_Comfortable?_ A friend would not find sitting on a friend’s bed _uncomfortable_. He _should be_ comfortable with that since they are _just friends_. He presses his eyes closed for three heartbeats, then eases his bag off his shoulder, toes off his shoes and settles onto John’s bed, legs folded up under himself. 

When John turns to find the beautiful, young man sitting on his bed, looking for all the world as if he belongs there, his face grows hot and he clears his throat. He takes a long drag of his beer, _a little liquid courage_ , before venturing over. 

“Your grandmother is French. Spoke very little English. You were the only one, besides your mother, to learn,” Sherlock states, not looking up from pulling a camera lens from his bag into his lap.

John glances up at the photo of his mom and smiles at the cleverness of his friend to somehow get that from one photo that didn’t even feature his grandmother.

“My granddad met her during the war. Guess he didn’t need to know that much French to woo her,” John says with a chuckle as he places a wine cooler for Sherlock on the small dresser beside his bed. “She was always paranoid that my grandfather’s side of the family was talking poorly of her, so I learned to translate for her. She’d talk to me for hours.” 

Sherlock nods, running his eyes slowly over John again, the faintest taunting smile creeping onto his lips.

“C'est un gentil petit garçon,” Sherlock says teasing John about being such a _good little boy_. John wags his finger at the younger man, his lips drawing into a sideways tipped smile.

“A peine,” John denies. “Vous jouez avec le feu, beau garçon.” Sherlock flushes slightly at the compliment thrown in with the warning that he is _playing with fire_. His skin feels too hot at John’s gruff voice rolling the French words for _beautiful boy_ in his direction. 

If John’s grandfather was _anything like_ John, then his grandmother _never stood a chance_.

“Must be my abnormal attraction to danger,” Sherlock retorts challengingly and then, with a cringe, immediately ducks his head to gaze, wide-eyed, at the equipment in his bag. John’s admonishment rings true; he is _playing with fire_. He hadn’t meant to bring _attraction_ into it. They _are_ trying to move on, after all. 

John stands there staring at Sherlock a moment with a pink flush crawling up his chest to his neck and his dark blue eyes full of almost uncontainable heat. He can see clearly in his mind’s eye leaping at the younger man, tackling him back into the mattress and snogging him senseless. 

_But would he kiss back?_  
Would he run?  
_Slow up, Watson._  
_Surgery not rugby; need a bit more finesse here._

He clears his throat and moves to lean against the desk by the foot of the bed.

“So,” John says thoughtfully. “What do we have to do again?”

“The ears first,” Sherlock states, eagerly seizing the change in topic and regaining some of his composure. He clicks the lens into place on the body of the camera and begins to point it at John. 

“Hold on,” John says clapping a hand over his ear. “ _Optimal environment_ and all that,” he states firmly. Sherlock blinks at him several times trying to comprehend this.

“I assumed you’d wish to expedite this process?” Sherlock's eyes narrow on John. He doesn’t understand why he would want to dwell on this. He is, quite frankly, surprised he is being permitted to complete his project after his cold treatment of the rugby captain following their intimate encounter. For some reason John is giving him this chance to complete his project and perhaps salvage some modicum of friendship, but he doesn't intend to push his luck.

“No! Not going to have a few half-arse pictures drag down the whole project,” John asserts somewhat more passionately than he intended.

_This is his only shot, he has to make it count._

John takes a swig from his bottle of beer to slow himself down and hide the embarrassment over becoming so adamant. 

Sherlock looks startled, then nods slowly. He hadn’t anticipated the rugby captain feeling _that_ invested in the quality of his project. Their usual time together was never so structured or purposeful as to resemble a _real_ photo shoot. They would talk about one interest or another and when Sherlock would notice something about John reaching an optimal state, he would snap a few photos, then they would resume talking, without any discussion about the results. However, he supposes that John seeing the pictures of himself in the dark room may have made him feel some sense of ownership of the project now.

John places his beer bottle on the desk and claps his hands together. 

“Let's see...What is the _optimal environment_ for my ears?” John grins, running a finger along the outer shell of his ear. Sherlock’s eyes are naturally drawn to the motion, before he snaps them away. He thinks for a moment.

“Logically, if there is a noticeable shift in appearance it would occur when that sense is _actively engaged_ … perhaps...listening to something you enjoy?”

“I enjoy hearing you talk,” John says sincerely. He smiles, tucks his lips in, pressing them together with his eyebrows lifted as he stares down at Sherlock. 

Sherlock tries to hide the flush burning through his cheeks by looking down at the camera and adjusting the settings. He wants to offer some witty retort but the fact that John is perched there, waiting for him to speak, suddenly makes him self-conscious. 

After a moment of tense silence, John leans a hip against the desk and crosses one foot over the other at the ankle. He ducks his head and smooths the hair at the nape of his neck, stroking thoughtfully for a few breaths.

“Alright then… _music_?” John turns towards his desk, fishes his phone from his pocket and slips it into the speaker dock.

After a few taps, the low, smoldering thrum of a beat drifts through the speakers and John stands there a moment with his back turned to Sherlock snapping his fingers in time with the strummed bass. John turns, with dark eyes boring intensely into Sherlock. A mischievous grin pulls up the corners of his lips as he slides in front of the photographer.

The typically hard line of the rugby player's shoulders is moving fluidly now and he looks completely transformed; hungry, predatory and sensuous. His movements are smooth and seductive; full of an intoxicating confidence and swagger. 

_♫“Never know how much I love you, never know how much I care...”♫_ John’s voice joins the deep, sultry voice of the man crooning the verses and Sherlock can't even care that he isn't quite singing, but rather growling the words in a rumbling, spoken voice. He feels lava beneath his skin and is certain his flesh might well be boiling off as he sits there with mouth slightly agape watching a salacious, undulating dip and sway take over John's hips and spread to his whole body.

_♫“When you put your arms around me, I get a fever that's so hard to bare.”♫_

Sherlock feels his heart speeding up in contrast to the slow, sensuous music. He tries to pull his eyes up to John's face only to be caught and held in the sparkling gleam of his ardent eyes. Sherlock drops his gaze to those warm, soft lips he so vividly recalls traveling, hot and insistent, over his skin. They are moving around the lyrics, purring them with a hungry smile and emphasizing every word as if he'd wrote the song just for Sherlock.

_♫ “You give me fever - when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight. Fever - in the the morning, fever all through the night.”♫_

“John-” Sherlock tries as the instrumental break between verses swells, and his weak objection _(or is it a plea for mercy)_ is lost as John does a little turn, arms lifted slightly above his head, emphasizing even further the hedonistic snaps and rolls of his hips. Sherlock feels a little faint as the next verse begins and John's strong, adept hands curl around the bottom hem of his jumper, cinching it up as his body rolls smoothly in time with the music.

 _♫ “Sun lights up the daytime, moon lights up the night, I light up when you call my name-”♫_ John's lips curl up in a smile and his chin tips down. His eyes intensify on Sherlock as he emphasizes the next line like a promise, _♫ “... and you know I'm gonna treat you right.”♫_ He winks at Sherlock before pulling off his jumper and tossing it aside. 

Sherlock swallows roughly, trying hard to control his thoughts and shifting the camera into his lap as strong muscles twist and flex before him. He feels heat coiling through his body and resting heavily in his groin. No amount of mental fortitude can keep his body from reacting to John's fingers skittering over the toned hills and valleys of his own chest and abdomen, almost absently, as he continues to move.

 _♫ “You give me fever - when you kiss me, fever when you hold me tight.”♫_ Sherlock sways forward a little, lips parted, as his mind swaps John's fingertips for his own lips and he can vividly imagine brushing hungrily over that rippling flesh. 

_♫ “Everybody's got the fever, that is something you all know...”♫_ John is sauntering over to the door now. Sherlock watches, far too mesmerized to be sufficiently perplexed, as he opens the door a crack to slip a sock over the outside knob, then shuts and locks it. 

_♫ “Fever isn't such a new thing, fever started long ago.”♫_ His eyebrows bounce up and down then he winks at Sherlock again, deep blue eyes sparkling with humor like it's a shared joke.

It takes the stupefied genius far too long to comprehend the meaning of these actions. When he does his mouth snaps closed, he leans back and his eyes grow large and doe-like. He looks around a little panicked; resembling a spooked animal.

In front of him John's dance goes from sensual to silly as the singer croons about Romeo and Juliet and John over acts the part of both. His body swishes as if he is wearing a dress, shooting demur looks in Sherlock’s direction and his voice going high in mimicry of Juliet and then appearing to wield a sword and swagger as Romeo. Sherlock smiles at John’s shameless goofiness. 

_♫“Thou givest fever, when we kisseth, fever with thy flaming youth.”♫_

A warmth creeps down his chest as he remembers the rugby captain picking up on his line from Shakespeare's play the night they got drunk and how John had then called his own dramatic antics _perfect_. He never feels less judged than with John. It truly feels as if everything is _fine_ with him. He laughs, his earlier tension forgotten, as John pretends to swoon, nearly falling back into his lap. 

_♫“Fever - I'm afire, fever yea I burn forsooth.”♫_

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock laughs with more affection than bite, pushing gently at John's head in his lap. 

“ _Your_ idiot,” John says. As the big band music swells again, with a sudden, swift move John turns, pushes the camera from Sherlock's hand to the bed, and pulls him up to standing. He firmly snaps Sherlock into a proper, closed ballroom dance hold with his left hand on Sherlock’s back and his right hand bent at the elbow and clasping Sherlock’s hand vertically. 

“How-?” Sherlock eyes him, puzzled, as he evaluates the perfect lines of John’s hold. John grins and begins to move them in a waltz.

“Coach wanted all the players to take a course - thought it would teach us _agility._ ”

Sherlock laughs at this as they stumble for a moment; John feeling out Sherlock’s presence and the flow of his body while Sherlock adjusts to not being the lead. 

Sherlock, of course, has had years of formal lessons, like his brother had before him. That is the sort of thing well-off parents subject their children to and Sherlock had, of course, excelled at. After a moment to reorder his knowledge, he finds he doesn’t mind taking the part traditionally allotted to the female. It always seemed to him that their part had the more interesting and complex moves anyhow. 

He soon finds John is more than adequate as a lead. He is actually _quite good_ in his mix of confident authority and gentle flexibility. His body and touch clearly state his intended movements, inviting Sherlock to follow along with soft but clear guidance, yet he never forces Sherlock into movements. No matter which move Sherlock decides to try John takes his adaptations in stride and follows him through it, lending his sturdy body for support.

The instrumental music flows into verses about the _'mad affair’_ of Captain Smith and Pocahontas as John watches Sherlock; utterly entranced by the elegance of his movements. He occasionally picks up and belts out a fragment of the verse, but finds himself volleying between awe at the beautiful man slipping in and out of his grasp and urging him through an exotic volley of new moves, to laughing giddily at an especially daring twist of vigorous yet delicate footwork. Tango, waltz, samba, chacha - Sherlock seamlessly pulls in bits and pieces of several dances, as if testing and challenging John's knowledge base. For John's part, he keeps up admirably and relishes the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face when he throws in new, skillfully executed intricate steps of his own. He has never had a partner anything like the wild, gorgeous creature moving randomly around, in counterpoint and then in sync with him. 

Dancing with Sherlock is like dancing with air; he is difficult to harness, unpredictable in his movements, but so utterly committed to them that he is a force of nature. As the music changes, he gracefully glides into each move, savoring it until it plays out on the long lines of his elegant body. He glows with an untempered joy that John wants to keep pulling out of him endlessly.

Familiar with the shifts in tempo of the song, John plants himself, extends one hand that Sherlock naturally slips his own hand into. John gives a little tug and Sherlock spins into him. The music drops back to the sultry, low thrumming as Sherlock comes to rest flush against John and a firm hand is pressed into the small of his back as the other clasps his hip guiding him in time with John’s rolling and dipping movements, more like those he began with in his solo performance. 

Sherlock gasps, his eyelids sliding to half-lidded as he is pressed into the firm line of the rugby player, chest to thigh, and they move in fluid synchronization. His breath is coming ragged and short as his mind is focused down onto the press of John's body moving against his own; slow steps and rolling hips.

The overwhelming heat radiating between them is immediate. His hand finds John’s shoulders, hot and slick with sweat that glides down the taut skin, and he digs his fingers into muscle to hold himself up. He can feel a trail of sweat making its way from between his shoulder blades down his spine beneath the fabric of his shirt, like a hot, wet tongue sliding over his skin, and he shivers. 

_♫“Now you've listened to my story; here's the point I have made,”♫_ John breathes, lips brushing up Sherlock's neck. Sherlock's whole body begins to tremble. John is dipping into him and away, carrying him along in the rolling slide and press of flesh and muscle, and Sherlock has never made love but he is certain it must be something close to _this._

 _♫ “Fever - till you sizzle, what a lovely way to burn,”♫_ John growls, his voice crackling and frayed.

Sherlock is breathlessly panting; his mind hushed as his body hums louder and louder in eager want to have John even closer to him; wrapped around him, inside him. He thinks it must be deafening as he can barely hear the music. 

He is beginning to resist when John rolls into him, just to feel the power of the rugby player's thrust, and the drag of friction that sears through his body like a chemical fire. John does the same; their movements becoming more stilted and off rhythm as the song winds to a close.

 _♫ “What a lovely way to burn,”♫_ John sings. His hand splays on Sherlock's back while the other arm wraps around his waist. He bows Sherlock back slightly, supported in his arms, and brushes an open mouth down the column of his long, pale neck.

 _♫ “What a lovely way to burn,”♫_ he rumbles into the base of Sherlock's neck so the words vibrate inside Sherlock. 

Sherlock shudders and holds his breath as the music does one final dramatic note and then goes silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This vignette has been haunting my Johnlock dreams for probably a month now. One of those moments I personally needed to see the boys have. Glad it found a home here. I hope this chapter quenches (or wets) your appetite a bit again for this little unilock love affair._
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>   **As always Kudos and comments are dearly appreciated!**


	9. Overwhelmed

“John-” Sherlock whimpers weakly. His voice sounds small in the quiet room joined only by the volley of their heavy breathing. The unyielding press of John against him; his warm, wet breath against his throat, is overwhelming.

“Yes. Tell me what you want, Sherlock,” John growls, squeezing him tighter in his arms. 

Sherlock groans. The cries of longing from his flesh are at war with the demand for restraint and logic from his mind.

What he _wants_ is John. He wants John _so badly_ it aches and gnaws… but he's not _suppose to_ want.

“I - I...” He shakes his head to clear it. The strength and poise in every strained muscle of that athletic body flexed against his own makes him dizzy. His desires and thoughts skitter over each other; tangling and muddling. He can't possibly think when his achingly hard erection is pushing into the firm muscle of John's thigh and the rugby player's thick fingers are splayed between his shoulder blades, searing like a hot brand, capturing the sweat and making his thin shirt cling to his skin. Those powerful arms are coiled around him, making his body somehow feel fragile and precious. Those lips, with those teeth and tongue lurking behind them, are moving gently against the delicate flesh of his throat with each word and exhaled breath and it all makes his entire body tingle with a torrent of sensation. 

It is the most thrilling and the most terrifying sensation Sherlock has ever known. It is _perfect_... and _not enough_... and _too much_ all at once.

_He wants... More... Everything._

He goes limp, his back bowing further, curving into a beautiful backward arch; hair lifting off his forehead as his head dips back towards the floor in complete surrender. John hunches further over him, arms sliding up to brace him, bodies moving against each other in delicious friction. The sound the rugby player makes is an almost pained, guttural, animalistic growl that rattles every nerve in Sherlock’s body. He freezes, suspended, muscles tensing as he holds his breath. 

_What has he done? Is it not good? Is John angry?_

His mind flickers like a crashing computer; the system grasping at fragments of data that are disjointed and nonsensical. He presses his eyes closed and sinks into himself.

> In his Mind Palace Mycroft is there looming over him. They are in their study from their childhood home and Mycroft is sitting behind his father’s large desk. Sherlock is small, just ten years old with unruly hair, face dirty from exploration in the woods, dressed in cheap play trousers and a soft jumper. Mycroft is an adult in his perfectly pristine expensive suit; seeming even more unassailably superior with the height and age difference. He rises to his feet and leans forward, hands planted on the desk, eyes menacing.
> 
> _“Think, little brother! What did you observe before you destroyed your **only** friendship.” _ Mycroft leers at him disdainfully as he moves around the desk.
> 
> _“I haven't destroyed it yet,”_ Sherlock retorts, but his voice sounds small and petulant.
> 
> _“Balance of probability, little brother,”_ Mycroft says leaning over him; the shadows reducing his face to sharp, cold eyes and a humorless smile.

Sherlock opens his eyes and takes in the inverted perspective of the bed and John smiling at him from the photos on the cork board. John's expression is warm and confident, surrounded by various friends and teammates.

The sting of comprehension steals the air from Sherlock’s lungs. John is liked and admired by those around him. All those people care for him, adore him, even love him perhaps. He has _all that..._ Sherlock only has John’s friendship.

Before he'd met John he'd been able to convince himself it was for the best not to get attached; to not want or expect anything from anyone. Alone was less complicated… not needing others protected him from getting hurt. Now John is the only spark of warmth in an otherwise cold existence... But he must not get greedy. He won't have John _even in friendship_ if he is blinded by the force of his own desires into thinking he could ever have someone like John, _perfect John,_ more intimately.

His eyes slide to his camera and bag resting on the bed.

“I want to take that picture now,” Sherlock manages to force out. John lets out a long breath through his nose, a hot blast against Sherlock's skin.

“OK,” John says stiffly, a slight edge of disappointed resignation leaking into his tone. He had thought himself so close to winning Sherlock over only to end in a bust. “Right.” He straightens Sherlock up to standing, holding him for a breath in and out before reluctantly releasing him. 

Sherlock nearly collapses backwards; his whole body feeling weak and limp. He sits heavily on the bed and picks up the camera with trembling hands. He tries to point it up at John but his hands are shaking and the angle is awkward. Still, he doesn't think he can stand up in his current state.

John sees him struggling and drops to his knees in front of the bed. A sharp pang of regret stabs into him. He's pushed too hard. More than anything he had just wanted the brilliant, beautiful, mad genius to want him as much as he wants the younger man. He got a reaction, all right, but right now it looks as if that reaction is more fear than arousal. He presses his lips together and looks up at Sherlock almost apologetically. 

Sherlock tries not to think about what that pitying expression means, but his insides are on fire; aching and twisting. _John knows. He must know. It’s too late. It's over._

His eyes burn as he tries to focus through the viewfinder and struggles to muster the inner strength to make his hands steady.

He points the camera at John’s left ear. It is flushed pink and John's shaggy, blond hair clings, wet with sweat, to the side of his face around it. Sherlock swallows and snaps the photo. He then readjusts and captures the right ear.

_Simply perfect... Always. Perfect._

He puts his camera in his lap and presses his eyes closed as he tries to concentrate on gathering himself in, putting himself back together so he can face John and walk away from this disaster with some dignity. 

This must be what addiction feels like… or withdrawal. The absence of John after having him so close feels immeasurably worse, as if a part essential to his existence has been removed. It's hard to breathe and his skin feels cold and aches with little bolts of need skittering like electricity painfully under his skin. He is trembling, his whole frame rattles with earthquakes emanating from his core and radiating outward. 

John stares at Sherlock from his position kneeling at his feet. He sees the younger man's bottom lip trembling slightly, his eyes are scrunched closed and his dark lashes are fluttering over his flushed cheeks. He winces at the evidence of the devastating power of his overly aggressive play.

In his desire to capture the photographer's interest it had been easy for John to forget that Sherlock has little to no experience with physical intimacy. So beautiful, naturally sensual and intelligent, he usually seems so much older than his eighteen years. However his typical cocky, arrogant and self-assured attitude is apparently limited to his intellect. In this, he has now discovered, Sherlock is naive and vulnerable as a babe in the woods.

John moves to the fridge and retrieves a bottle of water. Sherlock jumps when he feels the cold bottle pressed into his hand. He can't bare to look into John's eyes so he instead studies that warm, strong hand as it encourages his own fingers to wrap around the bottle. He takes a long drink, uncaring that it splashes over his chin. He feels the cool liquid quench some of the fire in his chest and wash away some of the haze.

When John reaches to retrieve the bottle Sherlock grabs him by the thick wrist and pulls insistently towards himself. It’s just instinct; a need to relieve the ache of their separation by being close to John again. _One last time._

John moves to sit beside him on the bed, placing the water bottle on the floor. He searches Sherlock’s face a moment, taking in his wild, green-blue eyes, jittery hands and the way he refuses to look him in the eye. He sighs, guilt welling up inside his chest as a painful swell under his sternum. He mentally chastises himself for being the Neanderthal Mycroft had accused him of being. Their conversation comes back to him.

> ”Do you plan to continue your… _association_ with Sherlock?” Mycroft said leaning on his umbrella and looking down his sharp nose at John with cold, hard eyes. His smile made him look slightly nauseated. John glanced around the empty warehouse to restrain the urge to punch the man. He wanted to laugh at the absurd overtures meant to intimidate him. He stepped forward, fists balled at his side. 
> 
> “I don’t believe _that_ is any of _your_ business,” John said thrusting his lips forward and narrowing his eyes, head defiantly tilted to the side.
> 
> “It could be,” Mycroft retorted flatly with a small smile that did not touch his eyes. He withdrew a checkbook from his breast pocket and John’s fist clenched at his side. He felt a wave of disgust for the man before him and a protectiveness towards Sherlock that his brother would actually try to take a friend and turn him into a puppet and a spy. He could see why Sherlock seemed to despise him.
> 
> “No, it really couldn’t,” John gritted out through a clenched jaw. The compulsion to punch the smug man that was tapping his pen thoughtfully against his checkbook was so great he had to angle his shoulders half away and look at the ceiling, counting.
> 
> “I haven’t even mentioned a figure.”
> 
> “Don’t need to. Keep it…” John turned back towards him and glared. He noted the slight shift in the thin man’s posture as he registered just how dangerously angry John was. “He deserves better than _this_... Than _you,_ ” John growls. Mycroft's eyes widened ever so slightly and John smirked in dark satisfaction at ruffling the smooth, cold, unflappable facade.
> 
> “Undoubtedly,” Mycroft said snapping his checkbook closed. “But rarely does one get what one deserves in life, John,” Mycroft said and there was the slightest cold edge of threat in his tone that made John bristle. The pompous aristocrat looked John over slowly, assessingly. He stepped closer, using his stature to loom over him. “The question remains, John… does my baby brother deserve better than _you_.” John's eyes darkened. He tucked his chin slightly, a moment of doubt cutting through his natural defensiveness at being a poor, disadvantaged boy that had to scrap and struggle for everything he ever managed to win. Then he stiffened defiantly.
> 
> “Yeah, we’re done,” John growled turning away with a shake of his head.
> 
> “John,” Mycroft called after him as he marched towards the car. “Sherlock, he doesn’t… he doesn't care for people often. If you are fortunate enough to be one he does… do take care to not be a Neanderthal when it comes to _his heart._ ”

John sighs, and shrugs off the uncomfortable memory. He cautiously wraps his strong arms around that lean, trembling body. When they are at last chest to chest, Sherlock sighs and sinks into him. John's heart swells and aches with affection. 

He never intended to overwhelm Sherlock. He wants Sherlock, but he wants all of him; mind, body and heart and only if given of the younger man's own free will. John resolves it is time for a new tactic.

Sherlock’s body surrenders to the heat and warmth of John's firm embrace. He listens to the steady breath, the strong thump of his heart and tries to fix it all in his memory. Everything calms inside him to a low hum; a steady, manageable burn. He needs this and if it is all he’ll ever get, he will take it. He will be greedy one last time and relish in this small comfort, imagining it means more - that it's the beginning of something instead of the end. 

As Sherlock’s mind comes back online, he wonders what is left to do after having botched up this attempt at friendship so badly; an awkward apology and a painful goodbye?

He waits for John to say something, do something; get impatient with indulging his freak of a former friend and push him away, but he doesn’t. He just stays there, his strong arms encircling his limp body almost protectively.

Sherlock twists up his courage and braces himself. John lets go easily when he at last pulls away. Sherlock shifts and stares down at his lap.

“I should apologize-” he begins formally. 

“Obviously. It has been awhile since you danced,” John says in a chiding tone while getting to his feet. “Muscle exhaustion," John declares matter-of-factly. "You really should drink more water and eat regularly.” His voice has taken on that doctoring tone. Sherlock tilts his head, looking John over. Surely he can't have missed what was _really_ going on there?

“It’s not actually-”

“When was the last time you ate?” John demands, cutting him off. “You don't eat enough, Sherlock,” he asserts looking him over sternly. Sherlock bristles, his eyes narrowing on John and his jaw tightening in stubbornness.

“Only in _comparison_. You’re _constantly_ consuming food at an obscene rate!” Sherlock snaps. John grins playfully. He leans his hip against the foot-board of the bed.

_There he is; the abrasive bastard John knows and loves._

“Oi! Us rugby players _have to_ constantly eat,” John says slapping his palms against the hard muscles of his stomach with a loud crack of flesh on flesh. “Constantly burning it… You, however…” John jabs a finger towards Sherlock's ribs and Sherlock bats it away before it can give him a good poke. 

“Don't care if you do spend your whole day in that dark room, you _still_ need something to fuel that _gigantic brain_ of yours.” His finger dodges Sherlock's swat and flicks a curl away from his temple instead.

“Digestion slows me down,” Sherlock says dismissively, pushing his own damp hair back from his face. It only flops down again in ringlets. John crosses his arms over his chest.

“Bullocks! Medically speaking, lack of proper nourishment-”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Sherlock drags out the words while rolling his eyes. “You are _not_ a doctor, John,” he says scornfully.

“ _Yet!_ ” John retorts, leaning towards Sherlock. A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. His eyes are full of mirth and the heat of challenge. 

“That doesn't mean I don't know how to _take care of you_ ,” he says in a low voice that sounds just the slightest bit possessive. Sherlock's eyes go wide and he blinks several times, flooded with the memory of John pressed against him on his brother's couch and growling _'I’m going to take care of you now, Sherlock’_ as his body utterly surrendered to those strong hands and persistent lips. 

All the flames rise in him again and he struggles to stay focused. Their eyes are locked and there is heat and electricity vibrating between them. For one breathless moment he thinks that John just might lunge at him. Something about the rugby captain’s expression is so raw that Sherlock is struck with the certainty he is staring into the face of a wild creature, a raw and powerful force of nature. He is about to be _devoured_. The tiger is about to rip out his throat. He is frozen in place and he can't look away.

Instead John leans back and clears his throat, squinting up at the ceiling. The fire in his eyes shutters as his fingers drum on his own bicep. 

“Mouth?” Sherlock blinks at him several times trying to process an appropriate reaction. John's unpredictability is dizzying. Once again he marvels at the complex dichotomy of the man; to be so gentle and tender one moment and so dangerous the next. He at last looks down at his camera in his lap.

“Yes. Mouth next,” he confirms flatly. He is silent a moment, trying to focus on the task at hand. He contemplates how he might actively engage John's lips for the perfect picture.

“Eating?” he suggests tentatively.

“Ah… think I've eaten everything around here,” John says laughing and ducking his head in embarrassment. “Besides I can't think of anything _less attractive_ than a picture of me eating!”

Sherlock tilts his head. He would have to disagree. He oddly enjoys watching John eat. Perhaps because he seems to enjoy it so much but also because, after being on his best behaviour for the first week, he seems to have dropped the pretense of manners and then eating was like seeing something carnal and savage. John attacks his food with relish, a kind of focus and pleasured brutality that appeals to something dark and primal in Sherlock. However, he knows confessing as much _now_ would be more than a bit _not good._

“Talking then?”

“That's more _your thing_. I prefer to listen,” John smiles. They fall silent, contemplating alternatives. After a long pause, John finally sighs.

“Kissing,” John says with a shrug. “There's nothing for it… a good snogging is the _best use_ for a mouth.” He pauses, with a precocious smile. “Well, _one of them_ … Definitely top three.” 

Sherlock forcibly blanks his face as he inwardly cringes at the thought of having to watch John kiss someone or even capture photographic evidence of the aftermath. A cold chill creeps through his body. He stiffens, trying to brace himself for what's to come.

“Well, I suppose you can call someone or-” Sherlock moves his eyes from John's phone, still on the dock, to the door, wondering if there is anyone in the rest of the hall that John wouldn't mind snogging. The thought makes him sick and he grimaces, feeling a sudden ache take over his abdomen.

“You've lips,” John points out casually leaning back against the foot-board and lifting his eyebrows. Sherlock's eyes snap to John.

“Yes,” Sherlock drawls with his brow furrowing in confusion, looking for all the world as if he has no idea what that has to do with the current discussion. John bites down on a laugh. He looks down at himself and thrusts his lips forward to hide the ridiculous expression of fondness he knows must be written on his face.

“Right… well, I think it _could work_ … if you're amenable.” John looks up, brushing his fingers across his own lips as he stares at Sherlock's. 

Sherlock blinks at him repeatedly, his pupils growing wide and his breath growing shallower as he just stares blankly at John. 

“You want me to-" Sherlock trails off looking lost.

“ _Kiss me_ ,” John finishes since Sherlock seems unable to. His tongue swipes over his lips nervously. “Yeah...I mean… it could be...” _Good. Amazing. Heart-rendering, Mind-blowing. Earth-shattering. Utterly devastating._ “Convenient.”

Sherlock's jaw clenches and he feels the burning fire creep up his face into his cheeks. He knows, _without a doubt,_ that he cannot possibly fake indifference while kissing John. He barely survived the dancing without confessing how much he wants the man in ways that are _so much more_ than friendship. 

_This is hell. His own personal hell._


	10. Pucker Punched

“I - I can't, John,” Sherlock stammers, his jaw tightening and his lips pursing. He stares down at his camera, gripping it tighter to encase it, almost protectively, in his long fingers 

“Can’t?” John asks and when Sherlock lifts his face to look into those deep, blue eyes he sees something hurt and uncertain gazing back at him. 

Sherlock swallows around the expanding pressure in his chest; working its way painfully upward and lodging in his throat. He can't bear that dark expression on John’s typically amiable and jovial face. He can't bear that his own insecurities and inappropriate sentiments put it there.

A sharp pang of doubt shoots through his chest. _Should he be OK with this? Is this the sort of thing friends can do with each other without it being a big ordeal?_ It might be, but he is certain that he cannot possibly be indifferent to John's lips pressed against his own. He fights to repress a shiver at the hazy recollection of those lips moving passionately over his skin.

He, of course, can't explain to John the _real reason_ why he can't just play along and kiss his friend for the sake of his photography project. So he grabs for a lesser truth in the hopes it will turn John away from this dangerous idea without destroying everything.

“I am afraid I would not be very... _effective_ … I have no... _practical experience_ in these matters,” Sherlock says carefully. His face flushes with heat over the humiliating admission, but he forces himself to look at John. It is worth admitting this shortcoming _(that he is so odd and unappealing that no one has ever desired him enough to kiss him)_ rather than for John to spend one more moment being hurt by the false impression that there is anything wrong with himself.

John smiles. His face lifts and opens in relief and it is the sun emerging after a storm, warming Sherlock's entire body. He moves to sit beside Sherlock on the bed and he feels the mattress dip and sigh under the rugby player’s solid weight as acutely as if it is an extension of his own body that John just slid onto. He is keenly aware of every part of himself in proximity to that strong, surprisingly sensual body.

“That's _fine_ , Sherlock… it's _all fine,_ ” His smile is tender and encouraging. His eyes sparkle with light as he leans forward. His thick, blunt tongue presses out between his lips and retreats; leaving them smiling, blushed pink and slick. It sets a strange fluttering sensation off inside Sherlock's chest. 

“It's not so _complicated_... Nothing that a _genius_ like yourself couldn't figure out quickly,” John says with all the conviction Sherlock lacks. The easy, honest and unwavering admiration in John's compliment makes Sherlock's heart do a stuttering tap dance against his ribs. Something lustful and wanton tries to push its way up and he clamps down on it ruthlessly, burying it deep. He returns his eyes to the camera and holds it to his chest.

“John,” Sherlock says, looking up at him. He tries to make his expression cold and firm with every intention of launching into an unassailable argument about how there are likely half a dozen ways, other than the pressing of their flesh together in this intimate way, to simulate whatever results kissing may produce. _The fact that he admittedly cannot think of any of them is completely besides the point and must be due to a lack of proper references._ However, the words get stuck in his throat. 

All of John, from his golden hair to his warm, welcoming eyes and relaxed but attentive posture, is a blazing glow drawing Sherlock in as helplessly as a moth to a flame. Sherlock swallows repeatedly but he cannot rid himself of the feeling of something lodged in his throat keeping his words corked in. He highly suspects it's his heart.

He can do nothing but stare at John, discovering that his cheeks dimple when he smiles. His chest aches at this simple but perfect idiosyncrasy. He gets lost inside his head wondering how John's perfect smile would taste on his tongue and if his cheeks would dimple in that same way after they've kissed. It takes him a moment to realize John is talking in calm and hushed tones.

“- how you like figuring things out… could just… work out how it's done _on me_ … if you'd like… like an experiment… no pressure… just consider me your _practice dummy,_ ” he smirks, playfully. “You already think I'm a _dummy_ … shouldn't be a _big_ leap.”

Sherlock swallows, startled to find his own head nodding slowly in agreement as if he is hypnotized by John's soft voice, calm and confident gaze and reasonable sounding proposition. 

John is positively beaming at him now; radiant and reassuring, making Sherlock's insides stretch and expand like a plant unfurling towards the life-giving warmth of the sun. Sherlock _wants this_. Oh how he wants this kiss. It will most certainly destroy him, burn his insides out and decimate everything they have when his true feelings are revealed, but John is smiling and casually offering him everything he desires most in the world. How can he possibly refuse?

Something that makes John _that_ happy can't possibly be _wrong._

“Right…” John claps his hands together softly, and rubs his palms against each other as if eagerly preparing for some task that is especially challenging. “Where do you want me, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock shudders. _That question_ again. Though muted in its vehemence when absent the influence of alcohol, the answer hasn't changed from the truth that surfaced during their visit to the supply closet of the pub.

_On the floor. In your bed. Inside me. God, anywhere - everywhere, John._

“Against the wall. Sit back,” Sherlock instructs, reasoning that at least with John leaning his back against the wall he will be less likely to give into the urge to push the rugby captain flat and climb on top of him… it is a desire that is already buzzing insistently in the back of his mind.

John slides across the bed until he is sitting with his back against the wall and his legs stretched straight out in front of him. Sherlock just stares at him for several strained breaths. His eyes travel slowly over that strong body, remembering the danger and thrill of it pressed against his own. He can hear his heart beating in his ears again, loud and insistent, warning him this is foolish and dangerous.

John watches him carefully. When Sherlock's eyes meet his, he draws his lips up in a charming grin. He sings in a deep voice, “You must remember this. A kiss is _just a kiss._ A sigh is just a sigh.” He gives Sherlock a wink and lifts his hands slightly from where they rest on the bed by his side. His strong shoulders shift against the wall in a shrug.

“Just a _dummy_ waiting to be kissed here,” he says disarmingly. “In your own time, Sherlock.” He closes his eyes and sinks back against the wall looking as if he has drifted off to sleep. Sherlock watches his chest rise and fall, muscles flexing and relaxing. 

“Quite quickly, I should think,” Sherlock mutters to himself, setting his camera carefully aside. The mixture of thrilled excitement and dread swells within him.

As Sherlock crawls closer, John continues to sing quietly. “... no one can deny. It's still the same old story. A fight for love and glory. A case of do or die,” he sings softly to himself; eyelashes fluttering over his cheeks and head swaying side to side. He hums a few more bars wordlessly before drifting off into silence.

For Sherlock it is a relief to think John might be so distracted that there is no room in his thoughts for judgement of his performance. He wishes he could be similarly disengaged from the weight of their current predicament. He feels his incompetence quivering and shameful in contrast to his sharp desire for John. All of it is underpinned by a dark current of fear of being discovered and losing John forever. It feels painfully crowded inside his head and he is having difficulty sorting it all out and affixing his mind to something that might pull him through this. He tries to steel himself by clinging to the words from John’s song.

_A kiss... it's **just** a kiss… a simple kiss… people do it all the time._

He slides closer, his knees resting by John’s left hip. He is so close now that it would be easy to touch. He could run his fingers through that golden hair or drag his palms over those tightly coiled shoulders and down that hard chest, broader and more tightly packed with muscle than his own. His hands itch with the desire to know the tension of their reined in power. 

With John's eyes closed and his body so relaxed he can almost imagine it is something different. He can almost fool himself into believing that John fell asleep while studying, _just like this,_ and he sneaked in and carefully crept up to kiss him awake... like a _good boyfriend_ would... John would smile into his lips and wrap his arms around him-

John clears his throat. Sherlock closes his eyes a moment and takes a deep breath. 

_Don't get carried away… don't deceive yourself… not real… just a means to an end… it's not to keep._

With renewed determination to get this over with as coldly and efficiently as possible, Sherlock scoots closer and leans over. John seems to sense his proximity. His lips part slightly in expectation. His chest goes still; a breath caught in mid-expansion. 

Sherlock hovers there, breath ghosting over John’s lips. He adjusts the angle of his head and tries to plan an approach but realizes his position is all wrong. His neck is strained and he can barely reach John. After a moment of consideration, he carefully throws his knee over to the other side of John so that he is straddling his lap. John’s eyes snap open and he looks up at Sherlock in surprise. Jarred out of his scientific mode by John's look of astonishment, Sherlock stays perfectly still. 

“Not good?” He asks. He hovers in place with all the pent up energy of a hummingbird paused in mid-flight. 

There is flicker of heat in John’s eyes. He looks like he is biting back the urge to say something passionate as his hands lift to grip Sherlock by the hips. They stop a few centimeters away, hovering. He flexes them, then lowers them deliberately. He blinks slowly three times, then swallows. 

“Yeah… it’s fine…” He smiles softly, but his eyes are slightly narrowed and searching Sherlock’s face. “ _Anything_ … Anything you want is _fine_ , Sherlock.” he nods for emphasis and then closes his eyes again. 

Sherlock studies him considering the permission he has given. Clearly John has _no idea_ what the photographer _wants_ or he would not be so liberal in granting that open invitation. 

As Sherlock settles onto John’s lap he can feel their breaths synchronize and the strong muscles of those athletic legs underneath him. John is warm and solid, safe and accepting. His pink lips appear strong and firm, gently curved into a near constant smile. His bare chest is a sculptural work of art; hard sloping planes, sharp cuts and curves speaking of strength and power, relaxed now. 

He is half naked while Sherlock is still fully clothed and there is a vulnerability about that. In fact everything about John right now speaks of willing surrender. Yet Sherlock knows he is the one that is about to be exposed. Irrevocably torn open and bared to John, because, lips to lips, there will be _nowhere to hide._

The air seems heavy with expectations and muddled emotions. Sherlock cannot take the uncertainty and internal bludgeoning any longer; the push and pull of desire versus logic and fear. He just wants this torture to be _over_. He closes his eyes and plunges forward, his lips crashing into John’s with such force that John’s head smacks against the wall and teeth mash against teeth, crushing lips. It’s so abrupt and violent Sherlock barely registers any sensation besides pain and flesh giving way before he jerks back. 

“Shit!” John exclaims, his hand going to his busted lower lip as he looks up at Sherlock, dazed. For one horrifying moment Sherlock just stares at him, mortified at what he has done. John looks stunned. His dark blue eyes are wide in disbelief and the rest of his face is lax; too astounded to express anything at all. Then Sherlock starts to scramble backwards off of John’s lap, words spilling out of his mouth rapidly. 

“I warned you that I’ve no experience with this sort of thing and the trajectory was all wrong-” John’s hands fly up and grab him by the hips before he can escape, pulling him firmly back into his lap. It takes Sherlock a frantic moment to realize the rugby player is not angry but laughing, shoulders shaking and eyes pressed closed as the pleasant noise rolls through him. 

“Apparently….” John breaks down in laughter. He can’t seem to catch his breath or stop laughing long enough to say a full sentence. Fits of giggles keep seizing him every few words. “Apparently...was singin’ the wrong… the wrong song… You bloody well... _hauled off_ and kissed me…” 

John doubles over in laughter, his hair brushing against the front of Sherlock's shirt. The way he looks up at Sherlock between bouts of laughter, his eyes full of fondness and his mouth quirked, as if slightly embarrassed himself, as the jubilant sound spills out of him in bubbling waves of happiness, forces Sherlock to start laughing too. 

“You… oh, god… how did you _even_ -?… you... you… sucker punched me _with your lips_ … you… you… _pucker punched_ me...” John’s whole face is red with laughter, and the tears are leaking out of the corner of his eyes and running down his strong jaw. 

Sherlock keeps oscillating between joining in and just staring at John in wonder, memorizing his variable expressions and the way he is struggling to contain his hysterical fits of laughter, only to be reignited every time he looks up at Sherlock. 

After continuing on for several more minutes, his body convulsing and face contorting with wave after wave of laughter, John at last sighs and leans his head back against the wall, looking up at Sherlock from under half-lidded eyes with open awe.

“No matter how long I live I am _never_ going to forget that kiss, Sherlock Holmes.” He smiles around the words but there is something slightly sad in his eyes. The way John drags his eyes over him makes the younger man's chest tighten painfully. It feels like _goodbye_. Why does it feel like _that?_

His thumbs make idle circles on the blades of Sherlock’s hips. That simple gesture heats Sherlock's blood even through the fabric of his jeans. John sighs and his expression clears of the undercurrent of sadness. He tips his head to the side.

“You busted my lip,” he says running the tip of his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip with a smirk. “Strong for being such a _skinny_ prat,” John chuckles. His right hand slides up to Sherlock’s thin waist and flexes into the sensitive flesh there. Sherlock makes an undignified squeal and tries to contort away from the tickling sensation that shivers through him, but John’s other hand is still on his other hip, holding him firmly in place. 

“Oh, I see how it is now,” John says with a mischievous grin and a glint in his eyes as his fingers wiggle into Sherlock’s side again.

“Stop!” Sherlock squawks, trying to sound assertive but having too much of a squeal and giggle in his protest to be taken seriously. He loses control of his body as it instinctively wriggles and tries to slither out of John's grasp. 

“What?” John asks in feigned innocence, eyebrows lifting, as his other hand slides up from hip to waist and flexes into the flesh there too. Sherlock is now wriggling in a frenzy from side to side. Shrieking laughter, a sound he never would have believe himself capable of making, rolls out of him as his fingers scrabble on John’s chest, trying to push away. Failing to free himself he tries to peel the sturdy fingers from his waist, to no avail.

“You started it,” John huffs, laughing with wicked satisfaction at Sherlock’s contortions. He lifts Sherlock up, tosses him on his back on the bed and climbs on top, continuing to tickle. 

“Let it be known, Sherlock drew first blood,” John declares in a mock royal accent as if announcing a duel. His hands dive down, weaving and dodging to tickle. 

“Stop!... John!... John!... JooOHhnnnnnnn,” Sherlock practically wails. He gasps and squirms as much as he can, with his hips pinned between John’s thighs and the heavier man resting his full weight on his pelvis, effectively pinning him to the bed. He tries to fend off John’s hands darting up and down his sides but the rugby player is considerably stronger and his movements are controlled and precise, evading or breaking through all Sherlock’s attempts to intercept. 

Each flex of those thick fingers into his sensitive skin sends Sherlock's thoughts skittering away as his body whips back and forth in a mindless and futile effort to escape the electrifying touches. He is gasping, panting and laughing, unable to form words anymore. The sound of John’s laughter mingling with his own is making his chest feel too full, even as it aches from the contractions of the laughter squeezed from it.

His entire vision is filled with the beautiful sight of John’s radiant smile and his golden hair falling over his warm blue eyes as he gazes down. His tongue pokes out between his lips as he concentrates on identifying the areas that drive Sherlock the craziest. 

“Mmmmm… sensitive,” John teases. 

Sherlock’s shirt has been rucked up around his ribs in the struggle and John is now making gentle sweeping motions with his calloused fingers across the bare skin of his ribs and his stomach. These touches are no less excruciatingly stimulating for their gentleness and Sherlock thrashes pitifully. 

“JOHN!” He gasps out desperately. 

“Yes, Sherlock?” John says tilting forward as if to listen while continuing to tickle along his stomach and drinking in the sight of his lean body arching up and trying vainly to buck him off. 

Between fits of laughter Sherlock at last, with a growl of frustration, accepts that he is not going to be able to free himself. Tears are running down his cheeks from laughing so hard and his face hurts from smiling. 

“Surrender… Surrender… _John_ …” Sherlock pants putting one hand up as the other tries to push John’s right hand off a particularly sensitive spot it has expertly located on his lower ribs. “Christ, John... _Mercy_ ,” Sherlock gasps, pressing his eyes closed and going limp as John’s capable hands at last stop milking laughter from his wrung out body. 

His chest is heaving and a smile creases his face. He tries to slow his heart and bring his breath back under control. He feels dizzy from lack of oxygen, as if he might float away, but John is a solid weight on his pelvis, anchoring him. His pliant body sinks into the mattress. Even with the soreness and exhaustion of laughing so hard, he can't remember ever feeling so content. 

“That was... _ridiculous,_ ” John laughs, the fondness clear in his tone. Sherlock can only nod in agreement, eyes still closed. 

“You’re... Cruel,” Sherlock huffs breathlessly, glaring at John, who only chuckles lightly.

“I can't be held accountable,” John says matter-of-factly. “I'm fairly certain I'm _concussed_... Swelling in the prefrontal cortex,” John says pointing to the diagram of the brain on his cork board, then tapping his own forehead. “Complete loss of _impulse control._ ” He flexes his fingers into Sherlock's ribs again watching the younger man thrash and squeal while trying to push them away. “Remains to be seen if it's permanent,” he declares with a put-on sigh and shrug. 

Sherlock scoffs as he looks up at John through half-lidded eyes. “I never trust the _self-diagnosis_ of a concussed, _would-be_ doctor,” he says flatly, arching an eyebrow at him. John chuckles. 

“Evidence speaks for itself,” John says sticking out his bottom lip which bares a gash wrapping from the inside to the top. Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

“Please,” I thought you rugby players were supposed to be tough.” Sherlock narrows his eyes to slits. 

“Never said I couldn't take it,” John says with a smirk, puffing up his chest in mock indignation. He brushes his fingers over Sherlock's stomach, watching the muscles twitch under his fingertips. “Dangerous as loving you is, honestly having trouble seeing what anybody sees in anyone other than you,” John says quietly, as if to himself. 

Sherlock's eyes snap wide open and his breath catches in his chest. He stares up at John, searching his face for the meaning of those words. John ducks his head, his cheeks coloring a faint pink as he rubs at the back of his neck. “Then again I do have that _abnormal attraction_ to danger thing,” John murmurs. His eyes meet Sherlock's and there is a raw vulnerability to them that makes him look somewhat lost. His smile has a dejected twist. His whole expression has that undercurrent of sadness again. There is resignation in his posture, as if he accepts that he is watching something important slip away. 

Sherlock doesn't understand what he has done to make him look _this way_ but his stomach lurches and the air feels heavy. John has him pinned and his brain is swimming in feel-good chemicals and all he desperately wants is to return to the teasing and laughter. 

“The villainy you teach me, I will execute... but I will better the instruction,” Sherlock proclaims in exaggerated Shakespearean tones. He curls upward and digs his long fingers into the flesh of John’s sides, flexing them into the meaty muscles. 

John gives a start at the sudden attack. He barks out a laugh and just stares at Sherlock’s fruitless efforts at retaliation. Sherlock's fingers dig into the same areas along John's ribs that had made his own body involuntarily wriggle. John just smirks down at him. His muscles are tense and braced against the agitating touches. 

Sherlock huffs in irritation at John's lack of reaction and glares up into those amused, dark blue eyes. He switches tactics, softly brushing fingers up John's flanks and across his stomach. He watches with fascination as the firm muscles twitch and goosebumps rise. He tries varying the pressure and using his nails to scratch, raising faint pink lines on his abdominal muscles. He gets lost in watching the muscles move in response to his caress; twitching and trembling with the effort at restraint. 

John squirms a little, air punching out of him in little huffs. He sucks in a deep breath and Sherlock looks up; alarmed at having been so completely entranced in his exploration that he forgot the implication of such touches. 

“I -I…” Sherlock tries to think of an excuse for his inappropriate actions. His mind whirs fruitlessly. Finding nothing, he grabs for a diversion. He flops back flat and desperately throws his hand out, blindly scrambling along the bed in search of his camera. 

“I think we should take that picture now…” 

John lets out a long breath through his nose. “I should have taken more care with you,” he says in a quiet, gravely voice. “I’m sorry… I was drunk and you were...” John sighs heavily. Sherlock turns his face away, wincing as Mycroft’s words come back to him and plunge into his heart like a knife. 

_He was there. John was drunk and he was a warm body that was conveniently there._

He tries in vain to twist beneath John. He doesn't want to talk about _this_. He doesn’t want to hear John apologize and backtrack now that he realizes that what he considered a stupid, drunken mistake had made Sherlock fall _madly in love_ with him. He can still feel the lingering sensation of John's fingers tingling on the skin of his stomach and ribs and the warmth of John’s body on his own fingertips. He doesn’t want that tainted by the harsh truth of the emptiness of it all. He can't bear John saying those things aloud now; making all his horrible _suspicions_ into incontrovertible _reality_. 

Before he can grasp his camera John abruptly snatches his wrists and lunges forward, pinning his hands above his head. Sherlock gasps at the sudden, forceful move and the new intimacy of their position. His heart bolts into high speed; thumping against the inside of his ribs like the manic hoof beats of a stampeding horse. He can feel John against the entire length of his body. The rugby player's flesh and muscles are taut; his body is a hard, unyielding mass pressing down. John’s head is over his shoulder, buried in his hair, and there is a growing sound rumbling from his chest up into his throat; the ominous, cavernous resonance of an approaching avalanche. 

Sherlock holds himself completely still. He closes his eyes and lets his senses take in all of John. He can feel his pulse thudding in his wrists where John holds them to the mattress and he thinks he can feel John’s heart in his own chest; a strong, insistent beat, pulling every part of himself into an intoxicating harmony. It makes Sherlock feel like an empty throbbing vessel. John’s breath is warm against his neck and John’s abdomen, against the bare flesh of his own exposed stomach, is searing hot. 

John runs the tip of his nose along his shoulder blade and up the side of his neck to his ear, breathing deeply, drinking in his scent. His open mouth brushes against Sherlock's ear lobe and caresses the outer shell of his ear delicately. Sherlock tries to stay still underneath John, uncertain what is happening and afraid to shatter the moment or to risk unleashing his own barely contained desires, but his body shivers with sensation. John's hands tighten minutely on his wrists in response. His breath is warm and wet and is coming out in harsh pants against Sherlock's ear. 

“I'm going to give you what you deserve now, Sherlock,” growls John. Sherlock's mind scrambles to try to determine what John means by _that_. In the past a statement like that was usually proceeded by an _act of violence_ in response to Sherlock unintentionally (or purposefully) revealing some delicate truth about the aggressor in some indelicate way. 

_John is angry at him? What could the rugby captain believe that he deserves?_

John’s hands release his wrists and slide slowly down his forearms. His lips brush along his jaw, over his chin and hover above his lips as his hands come to trap his face.

“I'm going to give you a _real_ first kiss now, Sherlock.” 

John's lips brush ever so softly against Sherlock's, they are warm and wet with only the faintest hint at pressure; no more than a gentle summer rain. They nudge and flex softly. 

“Alright?” John breathes the words directly into Sherlock’s lips. The vibration courses through his sensitive skin and Sherlock exhales a shaky breath. There is a subtle reverberation building in his body now, a slight quiver growing in intensity that he can't control. 

John's bottom lip slips into the seam of his lips like they are interlocking pieces of a puzzle; as if they had been made in corresponding shapes. The thrill dances along Sherlock’s nerves like shimmering electric eels and he lets out a harsh breath through his nose at the touch, not daring to move his lips. 

“Tell me, Sherlock,” John growls. “Tell me,” he urges and Sherlock can feel the body above him trembling ever so slightly. 

Sherlock feels his whole body shudder and give up, the stiffness melting into helpless surrender. “Yes,” he breathes. Lips to lips it only takes a whisper, but when John stays still he repeats it as a desperate gasp. “Yes, John.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed even more teasing.  
> I enjoyed writing this chapter. I was laughing all week imagining Sherlock "pucker punching" John.
> 
> Your playlist for this chapter, if you choose to accept it:  
> The song John was singing first is: [Dooley Wilson’s **_As Time Goes By._**](https://youtu.be/4_Ey2smVXeQ)  
>  I was making myself a little inspiration playlist for writing this chapter and so was looking up any songs with the word _'Kiss'_ in the title and came across a funny American County Music song (not a genre I generally listen to) that had me laughing so hard I had to incorporate the themes in this chapter. This is what John was referring to when he says he was singing the wrong song: [Steve Holy’s **_Hauled Off and Kissed Me._**](https://youtu.be/zozVeeBuJGU%20)  
>  Favorite lines from it (pronouns changed):
>
>> "His lips were like honey.  
> I swear he pucker-punched me.  
> One minute he was dancin' with me  
> And he just snapped, hauled off and kissed me.
> 
> I was sold on needing to find a way to use it once I heard that.  
> Also inspiring me were: [Ed Sheeran’s **_Kiss Me._**](https://youtu.be/MXL8BEPl-Nw)  
> [Moldy Peaches’s **_Anyone Else But You._**](https://youtu.be/ceV62E-c86g)


	11. Give Me My Sin Again

John lifts up; his lips reluctantly separating from where they were slotted against Sherlock's. He pulls back to stare down into those glazed eyes. For a heartbeat the younger man before him looks a million miles away; drowning in the blissful flow of sensation. Then his hands shoot up, curling long fingers into John's back. He arches up; trying to chase the rugby captain’s lips with his own; certain John is changing his mind. 

“Alright,” John soothes, shifting his weight onto his right arm and gently stroking back Sherlock’s curls from his forehead with his left hand. His voice naturally drifts to a pleased rumble at the feeling of that soft tangle of curls around his fingers. They slip under his palm, soft as silk, and twist round his fingers, still damp and clinging in places from the exertion of dancing. Heat curls through John's insides, simmering.

He flexes fingertips into Sherlock's scalp and watches those sharp eyes lose focus and roll back. As Sherlock tilts into the touch the stretch of skin over muscles forming the long elegant lines of his neck makes John ache to press his mouth against that throat, to explore it with lips and tongue as he had only begun to do that evening on the couch. However, he knows he owes the younger man much more than mindless, desperate grinding with this chance at redemption. 

He must make this kiss count. 

In numerous matches where all eyes were on him, the team's hopes hung heavy on his shoulders and the stakes seemed impossibly high, he has never felt so much pressure and so much at risk of slipping through his hands as in this moment. 

_One chance. Make it good. Confident precision **not** brute force, Watson._

He focuses down on Sherlock and those little breaths through parted lips. He has spent the evening calling upon his most tempestuous charms to try to earn, through blood, sweat and tears (of laughter) this moment. Now the beautiful young genius is spread out pliantly beneath him, having given him one single modicum of permission to demonstrate everything they could be. He knows if there is ever a time to play like there is no tomorrow it is now; there very likely _isn't a tomorrow_ for him with Sherlock unless he executes this play masterfully.

John continues to stroke and tug gently at those glorious curls, carefully planning his approach as he drinks in the intoxicating sight of Sherlock, eyelashes fluttering over flushed cheeks and lips slightly parted. The want inside him is a molten lava, flowing thickly through his veins and pooling in a searing and bubbling lake low in his gut.

A small sound, a whimper mingling with a gasp, forms into John's name as it crosses those plush lips. There is such need and trust in that sound that John can only blink as he is suddenly overwhelmed with a painful swelling beneath his sternum. Everything seems to shift. His body thrums, both thrilled and terrified, as if he is taking a plunge into dark waters for the first time. Sherlock is beneath him, brilliant and beautiful, hard and sharp and yet innocent, vulnerable and utterly surrendered to John.

He abruptly realizes he can't do this. Not _like this_. Not as a _ruse_ for a photography project. Not even as a _gift_ , as if he is simply doing a good deed by giving Sherlock a first kiss like he deserves. John wants this. He wants _all of Sherlock_ and although the younger man has rejected his feelings time and again over the past few days, he can't pretend to give him a _real_ kiss when Sherlock doesn't know what it actually means to John to be the one to kiss him. 

His hand traces Sherlock's jaw, his thumb stroking slowly, reverently, and it is trembling ever so slightly. Sherlock notices and blinks up at him with an expression of confusion and concern.

“This is a first for me too,” John confides softly with a smile that, for the first time, harbors uncertainty. “I've never kissed a _boy_ before… and… if I'm honest, never kissed anyone I cared for like I do _for you_.”

Sherlock swallows roughly. His chest feels tight; too small. Everything about him seems too insubstantial for the immensity of John. He hates the nearly foreign feeling of utter incompetence in something so important; the sinking sensation in his gut that he is going to mess this up. 

He presses his eyes closed and tucks his chin. He flexes his fingers slightly on John's back feeling the heat of the slick and smooth flesh; the way the meaty muscles yield under the pressure of his grasp. He doesn't want to let go, but John's words can only mean that they both know that this will be the end of them. Miraculously, he has somehow recovered John's friendship and, in spite of everything, John cares for him... but that will surely end if this goes any further. He must decide if he is willing to trade this _one moment_ of ecstasy for all the potential future moments of _friendship_. 

>   
>  _‘Still so selfish and greedy for a taste of John's love?’_ a familiar disdainful voice accuses from the back of his mind.

_The price is too steep._

“I want you _as a friend,_ ” Sherlock whispers from behind closed eyes. The words, ripped painfully from his chest, are not as certain or steady in tone as he'd hoped. He knows this is the right thing to do. John's friendship is hardly settling, yet sacrificing the possibility of feeling love, even in the false reality of a fleeting moment, is like being impaled slowly through the heart. He gasps weakly through the pain of it, holding back the burning liquid pricking at the back of his eyes by pressing them closed hard and recalling the periodic table by order of atomic weight.

_Hydrogen. Helium. Lithium. Beryllium. Baron. Carbon. Nitrogen. Oxygen… oxygen… breathe… breathe… Oxygen…_

“Right,” John says closing his own eyes and pulling in his lips with his tongue. He swallows the sting of rejection _again_. The room feels colder and the meager distance between their bodies is a vast chasm he can't traverse. 

His chest aches as he forces the breath in and out of it with great effort. He can still feel Sherlock's fingers digging into his back as he listens to the younger man's stuttering breath and feels that heart below him beating against his own chest. All the physical signs of attraction are there, yet every time he gets close Sherlock pulls away. 

John’s mind churns slowly through his heavy thoughts. He turns the photographer's statement over and over until he at last realizes that he has hardly been clear about what he is offering. Perhaps friendship and something _more_ seem mutually exclusive to the inexperienced younger man. Hope blooms warm in his chest.

“Only friends?” He asks slowly, as he opens his eyes. He feels Sherlock's breath stop. His eyes, wide and slightly liquid, blaze up at him, staring fixedly. The unblinking stillness is so complete that it startles John. The pale, statuesque man has turned to marble before his eyes. He recalls how long someone can go without breathing and begins to count the seconds. At last, after 189 seconds, Sherlock blinks and inhales sharply.

“You… would like... to... be... _more_?” He asks haltingly with eyes so full of hesitation and disbelief that it stings. There is a dark shadow shifting behind those eyes and the thinnest thread of pain woven into those words. Abruptly John can see the echos of deep emotional pain in every moment of their association so far. Clear as day behind all the younger man’s hesitation, confusion and seemingly inexplicable withdrawals has been years worth of lonely hours, subtle and overt moments of cold rejection, and uncaring cruelty inflicted on him by every other human being he has encountered. The painful isolation looming large in the life of the beautiful genius is written in every hesitant line of his face. 

John can see the beautiful juxtaposition of Sherlock. He is a young man that is simultaneously _too soft_ and innocent and _too wounded_ and jaded. He finds it hard to trust John's blatant demonstrations of affection for what they are because no one has ever loved him anything near what he deserves. However, here he is gazing up at John, remarkably, with a small spark of hope in those cautiously guarded eyes.

John’s protectiveness surges forward and he just wants to wrap Sherlock up in his arms and tell him how deserving of all his love he really is. He collapses around Sherlock, pulling him as close as possible and burying his lips against his neck. He feels the body beneath him thawing, melting into the embrace.

“You're _brilliant_ ,” he mutters adamantly directly into that pale, smooth skin, as if the conviction in those words might absorb through osmosis and erase all the harsh ones that had been spat from ignorant mouths before him. He moves his mouth towards the center of Sherlock's neck, lips hovering.“So very clever.” He shifts again up his neck a few centimeters. “You're so creative,” he breathes into the skin.

Sherlock’s long fingers keep flexing into John's back with each statement. He smiles at this, amused by the notion that Sherlock is a cat, kneading him in pleasure over the ministrations showered upon him. Indeed, there seems to be a sound something between a purr and an encouraging moan working its way up from Sherlock's chest. Goose bumps are springing up across his flesh and he gives a little full-body shudder with the first breath across each new patch of skin where John's mouth settles.

His lips stretch into a smile. “You make me giggle.” He shifts over to the left side and presses his lips chastely to his prominent collarbone. “I love spending time with you.” John takes a deep breath and steels himself. He has played at it enough, now it comes down to the final test of resolve. The risky and revealing truths that leave him inevitably more vulnerable than he allowed previously. He must be completely honest. 

“You're gorgeous,” he says moving up to the jaw. “I'd be your muse forever if you'd have me,” he confesses into that sharp cheekbone, his words coming out slightly darker and more forceful than intended because of the depths from which they are pulled and his need to fight against his own natural resistance to revealing so much. 

Sherlock's breaths are stuttering, quick and shallow underneath him. The hand tensing on his back and his heart fluttering like a caged bird straining to reach John through its flesh and bone cage is a balm to the discomfort of being so exposed. 

John pulls back enough to stare into those bright eyes, they are the same deep green-blue of the night on the couch. The pupils are large and dark, increasing Sherlock's appearance of open and innocent vulnerability. The urge to claim Sherlock’s lips is beastly fierce inside him, but he clenches his jaw and fixes his eyes on the younger man with steady determination. 

He is no coward, even in this matter that he is keenly aware leaves him exposed to deep emotional injury like he has not experienced in years. Sherlock has to know he has real feelings for him and that he is prepared to be everything the beautiful and brilliant younger man needs. He needs Sherlock to understand everything and then make the choice for both of them. His hand is still and completely steady on Sherlock's neck.

“I like you for _you_ … sharp edges and all… and I like _us_ … laughing... arguing… dancing… dueling... _This_ \- being together like _this_ \- Being _more_ like this - needn’t change... or _reduce_ us…”. 

John takes in a deep breath. He's never felt compelled to make vows like this to another person. Yet he finds himself here time and again with Sherlock. The unique creature evokes in John an indefinable mix of emotion; heavy with adoration, wonder, devotion and protectiveness. He swallows, clears his throat and forges on, assuming his rugby captain tone that is firm and authoritative. 

“Now I’m going to take care of you, Sherlock... I'll be your friend and I'll be... _more_... As much more as you want… for as long as you let me.” 

Sherlock is staring up into his eyes and he looks so soft and lost. John opens himself up, let's all his affection and desire shine through unshielded eyes; unquestionable commitment, honest hunger, passion, warmth and love. His soul is bared to the sharply perceptive gaze of the genius. 

Sherlock's eyes widen, he sucks in a breath and his fingers grip tight on John's back. 

John leans down and hovers his lips over Sherlock's as an invitation. He holds himself centimeters from those plush lips, 

“Is that alright, Sherlock?” he whispers. There is no doubting the weight of that question, that is a proposal, really. It is a simple but profound request for permission to take responsibility for the love and care of him. John has laid himself before Sherlock and now he need only claim the rugby captain with a kiss. 

John's eyes are pressed closed and his chest is aflame as he listens to the agonizing silence and feels the damning stillness settle over the room. His breathing is heavy, hot and a bit forceful as it rebounds off of Sherlock's perfectly still lips, providing a tickle of air that makes the absence of a reciprocating press of lips that much more pronounced. 

He is keenly aware of every sensation of Sherlock pressed beneath him; the long, leanly muscled body, trembling slightly, his heart fluttering in his chest, the breath quick and uneven, the scent of him; expensive shampoo, and musky, slightly sharp aroma of sweat and something about his skin that is naturally a little smoky and sweet. 

He doesn't move as the seconds tick by tortuously slow. He uses all his strength to keep every muscle flexed and still as if the slightest provocation might send the skittish, younger man careening away once more.

Behind the darkness of closed eyes, he wonders what more he should have said. Should he have said he loves Sherlock? Is that what this is? 

John would never have believed in something so fanciful as soulmates or love at first sight; he is far too pragmatic to be taken in by that sort of notion. Yet he has to admit that there were strong feelings the first moment he saw the young photographer. It was not just the electric shock of attraction which was unusual, both for the fact that it was stronger than John had ever known before and because it was for bloke, but because that first glimpse brought a completely new feeling, something else entirely that is much harder to define. 

If pressed John might say it felt like something settled over him like peace when he first stared up at Sherlock. Something inside that was always uncertain, searching and didn't quite fit suddenly fell into alignment. An almost imperceptible voice in the back of his mind whispered _‘that's what I need - what I've always needed.’_

This realization sobers John as he waits, perfectly still and silent, for some sign that his feelings are reciprocated. He finds his mind chanting quietly _‘please kiss me, please kiss me, please kiss me… claim me, Sherlock. Dammit, take me.’_

Sherlock breathes in shakily, trying to get a grasp on his thoughts and his unruly transport. John is so close he hardly dares to breathe. He would have never believed it possible for something to simultaneously hurt like hell and be pure ecstasy. Now he is broken open and John is seeping into him, pouring in through all his cracks, healing him, infusing into his bloodstream, washing away all his fears and objections. It feels revelatory; as close to a spiritual experience as he has ever come. 

He spends long moments trying to pull himself apart so he can analyze, categorize and control the quickly expanding universe inside him that was set off by the explosive spark of John Watson. There seems no logical process for taming the confusing chaos. The tangle of it all is giving birth to new, vast, previously unfathomable possibilities. Against all probability, from the violence and impenetrably cold harshness, somehow all the necessary conditions aligned for _life_ to spring forth. 

He had seen it. Seen but _not observed_. That first day, that first photograph; _a universe was in John Watson’s eyes._ He pushes through the chaos, up towards the surface where John is waiting for him. Heat and breath and life.

“John?” It is the only word Sherlock can find to fit this moment. It’s a puff of air so soft yet it seems to shatter everything. 

His mind is in free fall, the filter gone, as his body fills the void with an onslaught of sensory data. Hard muscle, smooth skin, the heat, the press of flesh to flesh, the tension and strength, the intoxicating scent, the caress of John's breath on his lips. He is fully, intensely, bodily present and it is arresting. John's protectiveness, kindness and his devastating sensuality, crashes over Sherlock, submerging him in overpowering desire. 

He doesn't try to fight it. He gives into it, gives all of himself over to it; to John. It feels like madness, yet the most true thing he's ever done. He surges forward and presses their lips together. John tastes like beer, mint toothpaste, tea... something sweeter, _perhaps honey_ … something rich and dark, _lust incarnate._

The kiss is artless but the most honest, truthful moment he’s ever shared with another person. It is raw, vulnerable and real. His lips urgently consume John in a desperate frenzy as he surrenders to the voracious appetite of his body. His mouth slides and pulls eagerly, recklessly, as if he is suffocating and John is air. Blood roars through his veins and he feels alive, as if he's only been pretending; only ever playing at existence, until this very moment. 

John accepts his lustful assault, steady and unwavering. Sherlock wildly and savagely attempts to ravage the rugby captain, yet he simply lets the younger man’s need spill out over him; messy, erratic and unfocused. John lets the tsunami of want break around him, flowing into it, slow and unrushed, not trying to control or restrict it in any way, just patiently wading through it. 

His kiss is everything Sherlock imagined, firm and tender, radiating heat and confidence that promises so much _more_. Like with the dancing, John leads by a mix of steadfast assurance and flexibility that makes for a thrilling partnership. His lips take up that slow, sauntering samba, equal measures teasing and slightly filthy sensuality and also pure tenderness and affection. He takes all the brash and bold moves Sherlock makes and gently guides and anchors him. He stokes the heat between them, slowly, deliberately, building to an intensity that has Sherlock dizzy and clinging helplessly to his strong frame as the balance shifts.

John gradually slows the pace into something gentler, pulling them back from the fiery tangle of lips and tongues to a languid slide of achingly passionate give-and-take. He draws his lips against Sherlock’s with slow and searching presses. Sherlock is being peeled open like a precious and delicate mystery; carefully and deliberately unraveled layer by layer.

As all his vitally important barriers give way one-by-one under John's powerful and quietly devastating siege, he makes increasingly weak attempts to drag the encounter back to the fierce and frantic kissing that somehow seems safer. 

John allows his diversions, responding with little hums of warm amusement that communicate his appreciation for the enthusiasm. However, Sherlock finds himself outmatched in this. John remains committed to a singular purpose; _undoing Sherlock._

Each time Sherlock aggressively tries to wrestle the control back, John methodically gentles their contact. Soon he has guided them back to the soul-shatteringly beautiful extraction of Sherlock's inner being, the unrelenting exploration. Sherlock is swept along in the intoxicating press and pull of lips and the electrifying touch of tongue against his own that makes things collapse inside him. 

His internal defenses are in flames, his whole body ablaze from the inside out, and he can't care less. John's kisses are deep and penetrative, claiming his mouth, his body, his soul in entirety. In counterpoint, the captain’s touch is calming. His left hand sweeps repeatedly over Sherlock’s side, moving gently from hip to the bottom of his rib cage in measured, tender strokes. 

Every few strokes the callused hand ventures almost imperceptibly a few centimeters higher, dragging the shirt up in its slow ascent. Sherlock is so engrossed in the feeling of John's lips and his talented tongue that he doesn't notice. At last, as John sinks into a deep open mouthed kiss, his rough thumb sweeps over Sherlock's taut nipple. Sherlock arches up, the sensation shooting through him like an electric shock that explodes across every nerve of his body, rattling in his skull. 

John catches what would have been an obscenely loud roaring moan with his own mouth, pressing Sherlock back into his own skin with a fiercely passionate kiss that steals his breath for a moment. John's lips pull him back into sweet and gentle kisses that guide him back down to earth.

“Mmmm… sensitive,” John hums into the corner of Sherlock's lips, with a pleased smile. His own breath is ragged and betraying his barely restrained excitement. Sherlock pants, shivering, and tries to catch his breath, feeling thoroughly scattered. 

“Too much?” John inquires, with a tone between amusement and apology as he lays a soft kiss on Sherlock's shoulder. His thumb makes soothing circles on the taut dips and the hard ridges of the top of Sherlock's hip. Sherlock shakes his head back and forth even as he struggles to regain the capacity to speak.

“Give me my sin again,” Sherlock mutters, head resting in the crook of John's neck. John's laugh is a soft rumble, his body shaking against Sherlock's own as the joyous sound rolls through him. 

“If you're still reciting Shakespeare, I need to do a better job short circuiting that glorious brain,” he mumbles, nuzzling into the curls behind Sherlock's ears. The slight huff of warm air on the sensitive skin of his neck sets Sherlock’s body to quivering again.

“Obviously,” Sherlock quips, but the word has no bite, being entirely composed of breath and ruined with want. John smiles into his neck and makes a sound of mock injury by Sherlock’s words.

“I still have some battle-tested moves,” John growls playfully. He nips onto Sherlock's shoulder and rolls his hips against Sherlock as he continues to laugh. The movement, the vibration in the wake of the fading full body electrifying sensation makes Sherlock acutely aware of a painful aching, pressure and need. It steals his breath and a low whine slices out of his chest. His fingers scrabble along John's back in desperate unfocused desire for relief. 

“John,” Sherlock croaks. His voice is deep and raspy. “I _need_ …” He isn't exactly sure what he needs, but he knows John will understand and take care of him.

“OK. Right,” John says relenting with this cue that he's overwhelmed the less experienced man with the flirtatious play that is venturing dangerously towards foreplay. He sits up on his knees, straddling Sherlock’s hips and tips his head to the side as he takes note of Sherlock trembling beneath him, his eyes gone dark and wild. Concerned that he has frightened the younger man again, he quickly starts to explain, “I was just teasin’ a bit-” 

Sherlock makes a sound like a frustrated growl and it is the only warning John gets as those elegant and surprisingly strong hands quickly seize John by the belt loops of his jeans on each hip and pull down. John lurches forward and Sherlock tries to arch up into the contact. John throws out his arms and just barely catches himself in time to prevent himself from slamming chest to chest against that thinner frame. His arms cage Sherlock's head, as he sucks in a deep breath to try to steady himself. 

“Sherlock, what-

“Vous jouez avec le feu, beau garcon.” Sherlock throws John’s earlier accusation of _‘you are paying with fire, handsome boy’_ back at him now. His body certainly feels like it is burning from the inside out. Though he is nearly manic with need he can't help but smirk with satisfaction at the low groan and shudder John makes in response to his voice, gone husky with want, rolling challenging French words seductively off his tongue.

John stays there a moment, gazing down at the captured Sherlock with a dangerously hungry fire flickering in his eyes that makes Sherlock feel an exciting mix of anticipation and trepidation.

“Alright... You've got yourself a bit… _wound up_ …” John says in a voice that is low and dark, the strain of holding lust in check apparent in the sharpness of its deep, resonating tones. The fission of danger in it crackles across Sherlock's skin. 

John is not quite sure if his observation is directed at Sherlock or himself. He has been taken by surprise by Sherlock's sudden turn towards eager and untempered desire and he is finding it very hard not to give into the seductive temptation to take what seems to be offered now. He clears his throat. “We don't have to take this… _further._ ” 

“John,” His voice has both pleading and a sharp edge of frustrated demand. His hands slide from the belt loops, spreading over the globes of the rugby player's muscular arse and he pulls John tighter to his own body. There can be no question of his desire now with their bodies pressed so tight together.

“Christ, Sherlock!” John grits out, trying to hold back, to pull away, but Sherlock is thrusting and squirming under him in that desperate, unpracticed way, which is quickly dissolving John's efforts at restraint. The rugby captain has been more than ready to ravage the beautiful brunet since the moment he first locked eyes with him in the doorway, but he has been trying to do better than raw lust this time around. He didn't want to rush and cock things up again.

“You said you'd take care of me, John.” The tone is so fierce and insistent John can only smile fondly, shaking his head. God help him, he _had_ said that. It is becoming exceedingly clear that this is going to be quite the undertaking. 

John lowers down onto him slowly until their bodies are flush, feeling the way they mould together, hot flesh seems to fuse. He breathes roughly through his nose and wraps his arms around the younger man again.

“Yeah. All right,” John soothes. He lets the body beneath him calm down a bit. There is still strain and pained huffs that seem to induce twitches of those thinner hips upward, but John thinks it may be the calmest and therefore the most level-headed they are going to get at the moment. 

“Right,” he says carefully trying to keep his voice even and free of the heat burning through his body. “We've got some... _options_ …”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Give me my sin again" is from Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_ \- their first kiss. 
> 
> I decided to break off this scene and get you the first kiss rather than hold on to it until I could work out all the details of the other _first_ coming soon. (｡◕‿ ↼｡)


	12. Surrender

John shifts and gathers Sherlock a little closer, arms slipping beneath the silky fabric of his shirt to curl against the smooth planes of his back. One hand splays against the nape of his neck, feeling the sharp relief of muscles under the skin and the soft curls tangling around his fingers. Sherlock shudders and sighs.

The air is heavy, as if desire has a tangible presence that adds a thickness to the each breath he drags in. The scent of Sherlock settles into his chest, wraps its warmth around his heart, and squeezes. 

“I could leave,” John says softly, trying to keep the tension, the hunger, out of his tone. There is an ache of protest in every fiber of his being at the thought of separating his body from Sherlock's, but he pushes it aside. “Could give you... _privacy_ … let you take care of it yourself… if you prefer,” John says gently. 

That _is_ the safest way to handle this fragile beginning.

Fingers move up to John's shoulders and clench bruisingly hard into the flesh as long legs slip out from under John just enough for ankles to wrap around his calves and lock him in place against the body below.

“Don't,” Sherlock says. The way he makes his tone sharp with threat, as if he'd fight tooth and nail to keep John _just like this,_ has the rugby captain biting down on an amused snort. Instead he presses a firm kiss below Sherlock's ear. 

The silence stretches as John burrows against the warm bend where that long, elegant neck meets his strong shoulder. He lets the soft curls dance across his face and savors the feeling, chest to chest, of their synchronized breaths. His skin threatens to split at the seams with the joy welling inside him. The tension between the hunger of his body and the aching affection of his heart making his body tremble slightly.

“Mmm… Could _stay_ while you take care of it… ” The dark desire thickens his voice, makes it rasp. 

The heat in that tone, leaden with intent and lust, is enough to make a soft groan roll out of Sherlock. His breath stutters momentarily as his hips pitch up into John, responding of their own volition to the promise of unknown pleasures laced through those words. 

Intertwined as they are now, the long, hard length of an insistent erection is as distinct against John's hip as if there is nothing between them. It presses against John's own need with Sherlock's thrust and John growls with the sensation shooting through him. His hands clamp on Sherlock's hips, pressing him down hard, holding him still in an effort to preserve some remnant of his restraint. He breathes out harshly through his nose, head bowed, until he can calm himself.

“Will you?” John asks at last lifting his eyes to meet Sherlock's. Sherlock feels his whole body thrill at the ferocious gleam in that hungry stare. He closes his eyes against the overwhelming intensity; against the disappointment that is sure to replace it.

“Can't…” Sherlock groans.

“Don't need to touch,” John says bending to breathe the words into his damp skin. “Could watch... _Just watch_... Learn how you like it.” John mouths at the juncture of jaw and throat. “I want to learn… teach me what you like, Sherlock.” John spills the heated words into Sherlock’s ear, sweet and thick like honey. 

A shudder vibrates that lean frame. A low moan curls out of him and his head tilts back; his exquisite throat an offering that John eagerly takes, licking the salty sweat from his sweet skin. 

“Mmm... You will show me, Sherlock?”John’s hands are curled around the blades of Sherlock's hips. His thumbs slip up and down, from fabric to flesh, then dip suggestively the smallest bit under the waistband of his jeans. “I want to see.” The excitement vibrates through John as the erotic image of Sherlock’s beautiful form spread out on his bed, pleasing himself, burns through his imagination. He presses kisses along Sherlock's jaw. The younger man's pulse thrums quickly beneath the supple skin; yielding against John's lips.

“Please, John, I don’t…” He inhales sharply and huffs it out slowly. He buries his head against John’s shoulder. His words are soft and frail, “I don’t know how.” John can feel the heat in the younger man’s cheeks, the flutter of his eyelashes, the thready, trembling intake of his breath. 

_Don't know how._ John swallows and lets the words tumble through his brain. An understanding is dawning on him. He shifts and tilts his head so he can evaluate the profile of Sherlock's face. He stares resolutely at John's shoulder; the stern set of his chin and the downturn of his lips as if he is bracing himself for something awful.

“When we were drunk, you said... it was _unusual_ that you were aroused… does that mean you _don’t_ normally… ever?” Sherlock’s head moves up and down against his shoulder in confirmation. The tension in his body has made him as rigid as stone. His grip on John’s shoulders loosens as if he expects the captain to pull away. 

John makes a sound of consideration in his throat. Things are starting to slide into place in his mind.

“But you _are_ aroused now,” John says absently, casting his mind back to his knowledge of the spectrum of sexuality from his studies and trying to work through what Sherlock is telling him. All those terms, _asexual, demisexual, aromantic_ seemed abstract in the black and white of textbook terminology - completely alien concepts. However, now beneath him is a beautiful man, very clearly aroused, that apparently has never needed to get himself off before today. All that was vague and speculative is now an actual, concrete, physical presence embodied in a person he very much wants to understand... and to enjoy this experience with. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock snaps in a voice gone crackly and holding an edge of defensiveness in it. John presses a comforting kiss against his neck. 

“Mmm… yes…that much _is_ obvious.” He grins and swivels his hips down into the body below. Sherlock's hands tighten on his back.

“John.” It’s a ragged exhale against his shoulder; a plea for mercy.

“Yeah, alright… sorry,” John eases his body up the small distance Sherlock's unyielding hold on him will allow. “Remember, just a dummy here and… I just want to _understand._ ” 

Sherlock bobs his head in acquiescence. John nuzzles in closer to where Sherlock is buried against his shoulder. “Nothing, then?… Never got _this_ reaction before?” John whispers gently. There is a quiet, pained sound that drifts out of Sherlock's chest. John simply holds him and waits patiently.

“Once,” he says softly. There is a long, strained silence. “I was fourteen,” Sherlock finally continues in a hushed voice. “He was a neighbor boy… Discovered him trespassing on the grounds of our estate one day in early spring. When I decided to refrain from reporting him, he took his presence as acceptable... welcome.” A sad smile pulls at Sherlock's lips as he breathes against John's shoulder. His voice is almost wistful.

"We spent most days that summer together in the woods... I would read or experiment… he was, I suppose, a typical boy, so he preferred to climb trees or fish, skip stones, or swim in our stream… he talked a lot and I listened… it was… just being near each other… we… I thought we were… _friends._ ” Sherlock crumples into John, somehow making his gangly and surprisingly strong body seem small and fragile.

“Following several months of companionship I started experiencing... _feelings_ for him,” Sherlock spits the word _’feelings’_ with clear disdain. Anger and bitter self-loathing mixes with pain in his quiet voice. “Then I started… _wanting_...” Sherlock stops. He takes several deep breaths before proceeding and John can feel the heart racing in the chest pressed against his own.

“Severely. Misread. The situation… I tried to kiss him… he - he was _not_ receptive... _disgusted_ is an appropriate descriptor… punched me... Said horrible things.” Sherlock’s voice breaks; the heartache heavy and naked in his words, in spite of his effort to keep it steady. He is shaking. John wraps him tighter and kisses him gently on the temple with tempered devotion until his body settles. 

“He never came back.” 

His breathing is ragged now. It may be a panic attack at the memory or a desperate attempt to keep the tears from flowing. John's hand moves in soothing circles between Sherlock's shoulder blades as his mind settles on a word. _Demisexual._ Sherlock apparently does not have sexual feelings without an emotional connection first. 

John suddenly understands all Mycroft’s interference; first trying to scare him away, then trying to secure control over his continued presence in Sherlock's life through financial incentives. As twisted and wrong as his methods were, it was apparently justified protectiveness driving him. 

The fact that Sherlock feels any arousal at all for John is revealing. It speaks of a deep emotional connection that is clearly exceedingly rare on Sherlock's part. The frequently misunderstood and socially awkward genius has lived a life nearly devoid of emotional connections and was hurt deeply by the only person he ever dared to care enough about to want. Mycroft must have known by virtue of how he found them together what John meant to his baby brother and he tried to nip it in the bud before the younger man could get hurt again. John’s anger towards Mycroft abates ever so slightly as he realizes he was likely trying to spare his brother another devastating heartbreak.

“John,” Sherlock begins, voice quavering as his glassy eyes stare up at the rugby captain as if John were about to lash out at him. He swallows and stiffens a little. “If I have misjudged this-” 

“Christ, no, Sherlock,” John clutches Sherlock tightly. He shakes with the effort to restrain himself from holding his thin body hard enough to hurt. Knowing the depth and breadth of the meaning of this experience to Sherlock, John feels undeserving and overwhelmed. His desire to protect this empyreal being, formed of pure fire and light, from that shadow of doubt and hurt now dampening his bright stare is enough to crush his heart in his chest.

John nuzzles into his neck and whispers, “No. He was a fool. You are amazing and deserved so _much better._ ” Sherlock snorts a divisive and anguished laugh. 

“You do,” John whispers intensely. His chest aches and his eyes burn. He pulls back, tilts Sherlock's chin up with a gentle touch to his jaw and reclaims his lips passionately; trying to wash away the pain and doubt with heated kisses that pour his reverence and yearning into that soft mouth. Sherlock's breath hitches, then he relaxes into the slide of lips against his own.

John kisses him long and hard, licking into his mouth and answering his little moans of pleasure with deep throated rumblings of his own. It becomes slow, sensual and intense; desire concentrated and potent.

Sherlock's energy shifts. A wall John didn't realise was there, suddenly crumbles. His body turns to molten lava beneath John; no longer making those desperate, awkward twitches and thrusts. It rolls up into John smoothly like waves of the ocean are pulsing through his muscles. It's the same sensual give and take as when they were dancing, an achingly lush and hedonistic glide of bodies against each other. 

“Oh, God. There you are,” John breathes in awe. His breath catches in his chest. It feels like he is seeing Sherlock for the first time, as if he is feeling the man become his true self. Sherlock is no longer fighting it, he is allowing himself to want and feel. He is acting out his desires through his beautiful, sensuous body. It is vulnerable and sacred. There is such trust in it.

“I’ve got you, beautiful,” John licks from his collarbone up to his chin and feels that divine body shiver against his own as it surges, crests and falls over and over again. “I’ve got you,” he hums the promise into his skin again and again and again. He wants to emboss it on that ivory flesh, infuse it in his blood, score it on his very bones so there is never any doubt. He wants to be everywhere at once, know all of him with hands and lips and tongue. His fingers free the buttons of Sherlock's rucked up shirt and then the broad, smooth chest is bare before him. His hands caress along that lithe frame, marveling at the simple elegance of his form, as they travel over the hard bones, the lean muscle, the silky skin pulled taut over valleys between the two. Unadulterated perfection, sleek and crisp like fresh fallen snow.

Sherlock's eyes are closed, a soft expression of pure bliss smoothing his features. Little raw sounds of pleasure escape his slack lips while his body continues to roll up into John, surging into each of John’s caresses of his flesh with mouth or hands. He is some form of transmutable fluid, magnetically drawn to, and reshaped by, John's touch. John feels near euphoric watching this exquisite creature become impossibly more beautiful at his ministrations.

His lips rove hungrily over neck and shoulders, becoming increasingly ravenous as he maps all of Sherlock. Teeth scrape over skin and his mouth leaves faint marks sucked into the sculptural curves of muscles twined to bone. He rests his hands on Sherlock's hips and experimentally sweeps his tongue over his peaked nipple, Sherlock nearly vaults off the bed, his whole body flexing into a strained curve; back arching up sharply as his head is thrown back, face twisting in overwhelming ecstasy. 

John’s mouth falls open as he just watches the sensation rip through Sherlock. He own body throbs in sympathetic pleasure made sharp to the point of pain. As his muscles relax and he sags back into the mattress, trembling, John covers his body in his own, pressing his solid weight down, caging his face with his forearms and murmuring calming words in his ear as he peppers kisses on the side of his face and throat.

“Vous êtes si beau... So beautiful... Je t'ai, mon beau garçon... et vous me avez... Not going anywhere… permettez-moi de prendre soin de vous.”

“Yes, John. Take care of me, please,” Sherlock pants. He nods his head. “Je t'appartiens,” he whispers. His mouth latches onto John's shoulder, staking his own claim, sucking a mark into the flesh there. 

Those words hit John like a lorry. He stares down at him dumbstruck. He wants to laugh at the surrealness of it or cry out over the beauty of this extraordinary young man surrendering himself so completely.

_Mine. Oh, god, how is this mine?_

There is a rumbling sound in his chest and he is unable to hold back any longer. He surges down on Sherlock with fervor. His kiss is rough, passionate, possessive and full of heat and longing. It leaves Sherlock gasping, chest heaving with the intoxicating ferocity of it. His lips briskly travel down Sherlock's body; feverishly hot and damp with sweat. Sherlock is writhing against the sheets like he is trying to pull himself apart in the intensity of sensation assaulting his mind and the pained anticipation of the sweet ecstasy John will bring. 

John stops at the waistband of his maddeningly form-fitting jeans and looks up, his eyes warm, reassuring and determined. The spark of fire in their depths is unmistakable.

“Puis-je?” Sherlock’s eyes have gone hazy with lust, but he finds John’s face, his lips tilting ever so slightly into a smile and his head nodding before his lids slide down over those dark wells. 

“Please,” he sighs. John does not need to be asked twice, he quickly undoes the button and zip on those tight jeans and rids the younger man of his clothes with brisk efficiency.

He settles back onto Sherlock, straddling him, and spends a moment admiring the exquisite specimen laid before him. Being an athlete and a doctor, John is nowhere near modest and is necessarily comfortable with the anatomy of others. He has seen plenty of other men naked. Yet before meeting Sherlock it had never occurred to him that a cock could be beautiful or that he would want to touch it, taste it, indulge in pleasuring another man as he now has the overwhelming urge to do with Sherlock. 

Each touch feels reverent, more like worship than anything he has ever experienced before. He runs his palms over the tops of his lean thighs, up and around his hips feeling the flex and give of muscles as he cups his palms around them and squeezes. He strokes from his inner thigh by his knees to the crease of his groin with a firm touch. He brushes the back of his hand against his bullocks then rests his palm chastely over his hard cock. None of it is to stimulate. It is a declaration of domain; an acclamation to complete intimacy. 

_‘This is me touching you. It doesn't hurt. It's not scary. I touch all of this now.’_

He watches Sherlock as he does this. His chest is rising and falling more rapidly but he stays still, mostly relaxed, peering up through the lashes of heavily lidded eyes as John learns his body and teaches him what it is to be touched in this way. 

John feels that hot, hard, velvety smooth length twitch under his palm and knows the need, desire for him, in that. His mouth waters as he waits until Sherlock completely settles, growing accustomed to his touch.

“That's it. _Bien._ Doing so well,” John encourages in words that are mere breath. 

Continuing to touch him with firm and confident strokes over his legs and his hips, he slips from straddling Sherlock to kneeling between his thighs. He lowers himself down on his forearms and presses his lips gently to the soft skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh, feeling the tickle of hairs over smooth skin against his lips. 

Sherlock twitches and sucks in a deep breath. John rests his palm over the spot he had kissed and waits for Sherlock’s breathing to calm, then starts again with a firm kiss to his thigh. Sherlock doesn't flinch this time. He lets out a long, slow breath. John smiles into his leg as he kisses up it, muttering praise against that vulnerable flesh and relishing the feeling of the muscles flexing and gliding under each press, as Sherlock resumes his full body rolls. 

There is so much John wants to do and try with this beautiful creature. He wants to explore all of him, make him quiver on the edge of pure pleasure for hours, but this is Sherlock’s first time and he has already made him wait so long that his beautiful, dusky pink cock is purple at the tip and weeping a small slick onto his clenched abdomen. At this point it is likely moving from the realm of uncomfortable to painful for the virgin. 

He lets warm breath gust over the soft skin of his sack as he wraps his hand around the base of Sherlock's cock. An obscenely loud and erotic moan rips through Sherlock’s body and all at once every muscle is twitching and quivering. Just as suddenly it all stops and he goes completely still when John presses a kiss to the head of that long, lean and oddly elegant cock. He looks up at Sherlock and swipes his tongue over his own lips, tasting the sharp tang of Sherlock. Sherlock nearly loses all control at the sight. The thought of John taking this part of himself into his own body, is overwhelming. He bucks up and tries to choke out John's name; only a low, desperate, half-formed word emerges.

John smirks with satisfaction. One hand holds those narrow hips to the bed as the other holds the base of his erection. John continues to watch Sherlock's face as he twists his tongue around the bulbous tip, then closes his lips around it and applies suction. He relishes the rush of air, the groan of deep pleasure and the halted surge of his pelvis that earns him. 

His own body seems somewhere near the boiling point and if his mind were not completely focused down on interpreting every twinge and flex, in order to provide the greatest pleasure to the man surrendered to him, as he plunges Sherlock shallowly in and out of his lips, he might consider the possibility of his own spontaneous combustion. John finds himself groaning over the surprisingly pleasurable and exhilarating experience of having such a vulnerable piece of Sherlock's flesh inside him; knowing what this is doing for the gorgeous genius.

Words are tumbling out of Sherlock's mouth. Phrases from a half dozen languages strung randomly together into something meaningless, because it doesn't matter, it is all about the feeling; the pure physicality of the sound in his mouth, the comfort of their form and repetition filling his lungs, twisting and stretching his lips, sliding on his tongue.

He is trying to find purchase for his hands, they tangle in sheets, then scramble against the back of a thick neck, then dig into slick, strong shoulders, then clasp sweat-damp blond hair. Each new sensation shakes them loose to try to find somewhere new to anchor himself. He feels it swelling, a massive tsunami wave of pleasure; powerful, beautiful and utterly terrifying as it looms over him. He finds words again, desperately calling out John’s name, louder and more insistent, as that ominous wave barrels down on him. It takes him a few breaths to realize that the sensation has stopped and John is pressing kisses to his face, and murmuring soothingly in his ear. His whole body is trembling.

“It’s OK. You're alright. I'm sorry. Did I hurt you? I haven't done that-”

“No,” Sherlock huffs with what little breath he can find. He shakes his head and buries it against John's shoulder a moment until the wave retreats enough for him to pull himself back together. “Need… need to see you.” 

He needs to be looking in John's eyes when he goes over the edge. When desire destroys him with the force of it. He needs the last thing he sees to be John Watson.

“Yeah, alright,” John says lifting up and smiling down at him warmly as he caresses his jaw. Sherlock's heart lurches painfully in his chest at that expression; John's open and honest features full of fondness, adoration and desire. He never expected that look from anyone, much less the handsome, charming, kind and utterly perfect John Watson. He wants to shield his own eyes, hide how completely and hopelessly smitten he is, for fear it might scare the more experienced man off but he can't. He is too far gone.

John smiles and dips down in a slow, passionate kiss. Sherlock tastes something new, sharp and salty on John's lips and his whole body jerks and surges forward in ecstasy when he realises he is tasting himself; that this intimate part of himself had stayed inside John. Sherlock’s tongue boldly plunges into John's mouth, moaning as he explores the way the flavor of John and himself mix together. The heat floods through his body, followed by a feeling of plummeting into cold water, and he is shivering again. John’s hand slips down between them and curls around his member. It is a firm, confident grasp, it pumps quickly and it is too much.

“Can't… can't… please...” Sherlock cries, fingers raking against John's back as he feels himself tipping over the edge and he tries desperately to hold on, afraid of the devastating intensity of the sensation pulling him apart.

“Just let go, Sherlock. I've got you,” John breathes against Sherlock's lips, eyes locked intensely on Sherlock's.

Sherlock freezes in a soundless scream, lips open and trembling against John's as the avalanche of pleasure crushes down on him, washes through him, scatters him leaving nothing but endless waves of euphoria. He loses all sense of his body, of time, of anything but the unfathomable, shattering bliss.

He is slow to come back to himself. There is only blinding whiteness and the high pitched whine in his ears. Slowly the world begins to resolve and there is John, lips whispering against his own in a deep growl of desire and possessiveness.

“Beautiful. Perfect. Oh, christ Sherlock that was amazing. Thank you. Thank you for choosing me. That was so - you’re just... perfect. Tu es incroyable. Devine. Brillant.”  
Sherlock swallows and blinks, his body at last coming back under his control by slow measures. He unfists his sore fingers from the sheets and closes his mouth, taking a shuddery breath, his hands slide up against John’s chest. He can feel the racing heartbeat there. He slips into a blissful stupor, joy subdued and in more muted tones lacking the sharp edges and blinding brightness of the cresting wave. He breathes in the heavy scents of their body sweat mixed with the dizzying erotic smell of sex and his own pulse starts thumping loudly in his head again, a deep desire curling into his stomach as John presses kisses into his hair. He needs more.

Sherlock surges forward throwing John flat onto his back.

“Shit,” John curses in surprise as Sherlock pounces on top of him. “You're one of _those_ people?” John looks up at Sherlock with an amused smile and mirth flashing in his eyes. Sherlock is nearly glowing, his whole body is flushed and covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his hair mussed from thrashing about against the sheets and his lips and cheeks are stained dark from exertion. His eyes are shining impossibly bright. He slides back on John’s legs and without hesitation his hands set to work on John’s trousers.

“ _Those people?_ ” Sherlock glances up into John’s eyes, quirking an eyebrow but he does not stop his haphazard and ineffective assault on the button and zipper of John’s jeans. 

“Yeah... Alright… take it easy there,” John says trying to assist, but only getting swatted away. He flops back and surrenders to the younger man's clumsy efforts. “Most blokes find sex a sedative, immediately want to sleep, but others - like you, apparently - find it a bit of a stimulant.”

“Quite,” Sherlock smirks. “I don't believe I have ever felt so… _stimulated._ ” He shoots John a wicked look and drags his palm over the bulge in John’s jeans. John hisses through his teeth and arches into the contract having been distracted enough previously to completely forget how painfully hard he is. 

Sherlock bites his bottom lip and lets his eyes drag over the muscles of John's arms and chest as they flex and relax. “In fact, I do believe the efficiency and clarity of my thought processes have been greatly enhanced-"

“To say nothing for your hand-eye coordination,” John teases. Sherlock shoots him a glare that is lacking in heat because he has finally succeeded in dislodging John’s button and he drags the zip down slowly, his sharp eyes focused intensely, as if opening a delicate present.

“Go on now,” John says softly with a warm smile. “Never known it to bite... which is more than I can say for you now.” He winks at Sherlock pointing to the deep red mark on his own shoulder. “Proving to be delightfully dangerous, you are, Sherlock Holmes,” John smirks. It takes all his willpower not to kiss that smirk off of John's lips, but his fingers are steadily pulling away John's jeans.

“Never been accused of being _delightful_ before," Sherlock says with a crooked smile. Saying it aloud to the one improbable exception to that truth lifts the heavy weight of that confession from his chest. As he gazes down at those deep blue eyes sparkling with humour and affection he feels released from the burden of that loneliness that he had not been aware was dragging so heavily at his soul.

John lunges forward, chuckling darkly as he wrestles Sherlock back to the mattress. Sherlock makes his best efforts at escape but he quickly finds himself laughing breathlessly, his wrists pinned to the mattress as John playful nips along his neck.

“Arrêtez. C'est a moi de te faire plaisir maintenant,” Sherlock grumps, pouting between bouts of laughter. 

“Mmm...Don't think I'm quite done with you yet,” John taunts. He sucks a mark into Sherlock's collarbone and even though his member is utterly spent, it still sends a twinge of pleasure through Sherlock that makes him thrust up into John. He is surprised to find his naked body meeting against soft cotton straining to hold back hard flesh. In their struggle, John has somehow managed to wriggle himself free of his jeans and now only wears his dark blue, cotton boxer briefs.

It is a sudden surge of desire that takes John, who is quite distracted by the friction of Sherlock's body, unawares and finds Sherlock able to throw John over and climb on top of him again. Sherlock slams a hand down on his chest as the other cups John's balls through the cloth of his pants. He glares at John making it clear that he _wants_ and denying him would be _very_ dangerous indeed.

John is looking up at him from underneath half-hooded eyes, reduced to darkly glittering flickers.

“Je me rends. I surrender.” He smirks and lifts his arms in mock surrender before letting them drop to the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> JW: Vous êtes si belle = You're so beautiful  
> Je t'ai, mon beau garçon... et vous me avez = I have you, my beautiful boy ... and you me  
> permettez-moi de prendre soin de vous = let me take care of you
> 
> SH: Je t'appartiens= I belong to you
> 
> JW: Puis-je?= Can I?  
> Bien = Good
> 
> SH: Arrêtez. Je suis pour vous faire plaisir maintenant= Stop. I am to please you now.
> 
> JW: Je me rends = I surrender


	13. Perfectly Captured Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's turn to please John!  
> And the ending you have been waiting for!

Sherlock feels effervescent. Pleasure is bubbling through him; thrumming against the inside of his flesh, making his entire body lighter. He is radiating incandescent joy; drinking warmth and pleasure from John's skin and spilling it back out in an endless loop of euphoria. 

John's body is blazing underneath his eager fingertips and he is caressing and exploring with a merciless need to absorb every sensation the rugby captain has to offer. He is determined to taste all of him; claim every bit of him with lips and tongue and commit him to memory. He is greedy. Ravenous. Insatiable. John is laid out as a feast beneath him and he means to devour him, engorge himself and savor every bit of the delicious man.

“Shhhhiiiitttt,” John hisses in a pained groan. “Bloody hell, you're driving me round the twist.” He arches up into Sherlock’s hot, hungry mouth that is meticulously extracting potent ecstasy from every centimeter of his chest.

“I thought you said you could handle it,” Sherlock mumbles, mouth hovering against a taut nipple before closing his lips around it and sucking harshly. The sharp cry from John and the thick fingers in his curly hair makes a thrill shoot down his spine.

“Yeah, I'm about to _handle it,_ sweetheart,” John smirks, his eyes have gone unfocused and hazy with lust. His hand snakes between their bodies to plunge beneath the waistband of his pants and wrap around his throbbing, neglected cock. 

Sherlock watches the hand disappear between them. John's body begins to arch with pleasure as the outline of flexing knuckles beneath his pants works along his length. A pleased moan rumbles from his chest as his eyes roll back and flutter closed.

Desperate desire and need wells up inside Sherlock, squeezing his chest. In a moment of thoughtless frustration, he lunges forward and nips down hard on the juncture between John's wrist and the offending hand.

“Fuck!” John barks in alarm, jerking his hand back and examining the impression of teeth on his wrist. “You bit me!” 

“I do that,” Sherlock reminds him. He throws himself onto John, spreading his naked body over his and pressing down desperately, possessively, as if he means to envelop him and become a second skin to the rugby captain. His kisses are hungry and demanding traveling up that strong neck and along his jaw, the faintest scrape of teeth as his lips are forcefully thrust into John's skin. 

“You surrendered,” Sherlock growls.

“Mmm… that I did,” John chuckles. He wraps his arms around the panting and wriggling body, insinuating itself into his own so that every inch of flesh is pressed against answering flesh. “At your mercy,” he declares letting his arms drop back onto the mattress. Sherlock hums his approval, nudging John's chin aside with his nose for better access to his throat as nimble fingers stroke along John's sides.

“I’ve no mercy,” he mumbles as his tongue darts against John's Adam’s apple. He stretches his lips over his throat in mimicry of a feral animal delivering a fatal bite to that most vulnerable area, then he licks his way to John's ear. 

“Another thing no one has ever accused me of,” Sherlock pants close to John's ear as he rubs their bodies together. “Being sweet or having a heart.” It is taunting with an edge of warning to it, but it's the sad implications of that statement that steals John's breath; stinging deep down and making his eyes burn. This man that can be so infuriating and abrasive is also so obviously passionate and adorably affectionate that it seems criminal that everyone misinterprets him so frequently.

He turns his head, dips his chin, and lets Sherlock take possession of his mouth. There is nothing shy or tentative about Sherlock's kisses. Inexperience be damned, he plunges in, brash and insistent, and John loves it. Loves the messy, unfocused, dangerous fury of it; like standing in the centre of a hurricane. 

John closes his eyes and lets the desire of that mad, brilliant man wash over him. He cedes power and relinquishes his pleasure to Sherlock’s control. It is a level of vulnerability and abandonment he hasn't allowed himself to feel before and it makes the intimacy so much more intense. He quickly begins to feel like an untethered mess himself, quivering with need and eager for Sherlock to pour even more of himself into that maddening pursuit of pleasure. 

_‘What are you doing to me, Sherlock Holmes,’_ he thinks in awe. though he does not dare to say it aloud for fear the younger man might misunderstand and stop.

Sherlock kisses down John's body and when he reaches his waistband he curls his fingers around it, lifts himself up and pulls John's pants down and off in one graceful swoop.

John is gorgeous. Sherlock now knows this on a visceral level that defies explanation. He could try to quantify it with elaborate justifications; expounding upon the mathematics of the golden ratio, the constructs of beauty being based on cultural precedents and childhood impressions and the biomechanics of human sight, but he knows that in the end the feeling that is swelling inside his body at seeing John so exposed is more than the rugby captain's strong body and pleasingly harmonious proportions. It is something far closer to spiritual than logical. 

He feels that lump lodge in his throat again as he gazes down at John; completely naked, eyes closed and breathing rapidly. This is _perfect surrender._ Unabashed vulnerability. And he is not sure how to handle such a precious and rare gift. 

He lets out a shaky breath as he begins to mimic the consummate touches John had used to take possession of his own body moments earlier. He wants to seal this moment in time and, for once, he feels incapable of capturing the overwhelming amount of data; the subtle nuances and sublime essence of the man before him is already slipping between his fingers.

It takes John a moment to register the quiet click. His eyes snap open just as the shutter clicks a second time and he is alarmed to find the camera pressed to Sherlock's eye, squarely pointed at his groin. 

“Oi!” John snaps, his hand quickly covering himself. “You really just didn't-” Sherlock lifts an eye from the camera viewfinder just long enough to cock an eyebrow with an expression that says _‘obviously.’_ John snorts and shakes his head. 

“Nope,” he states firmly letting the word pop on his lips as he looks up at Sherlock with a crooked smile full of fondness but unyielding eyes. “No, no…Absolutely _not_ , Sherlock... Bit _not good,_ that!” 

“I don't understand,” Sherlock huffs, his face scrunched in frustration and confusion as he tries to push John's hand away from obstructing his view of the long, thick length rising from a nest of golden curls to lie flat against his stomach. “That _is_ why we are here. You knew that this project would entail my photographing you completely nude… you've never objected-”

“Well, yeah... not like _this_ though,” John retorts and then struggles to explain. “I'm not shy, right, but I'm all… um… worked up now,” John says feeling hot all over and oddly flustered. People had seen him naked - in the locker room and he'd even earned some spending money modeling for the life drawing class - but this is him _aroused_ and that is… much more personal… intimate… _vulnerable really._

Sherlock's fingers leave off trying to overpower and start caressing over John's knuckles, plunging into gaps between fingers to touch what skin they can find beneath. They both start breathing more rapidly.

Sherlock sucks in a little breath that sounds desperate and his voice also takes up a caressing tone, deep and silky, with a smallest edge of plea in it.

“But, John… It is _quite_ … visually appealing,” Sherlock says, as his cheeks flush slightly and his tongue makes a tantalizing swipe across his lips that appears completely unconscious and unintentional in how teasingly provocative it is. John closes his eyes and shakes his head back and forth.

“I mean... I expected it to be... I don't mind you taking it when I'm _relaxed_ … uninterested, or at least mildly indifferent, you know… just _not_..” John removes his hand to gesture vaguely at his cock that looks rather desperate to his own eyes; flushed dark, hard enough to bend steel around and dripping.

Sherlock’s eyes lock on, filling with heat as he tips his head to the side and scores his teeth into his bottom lip. He is straddling John's upper thighs and his own cock is quickly filling out once again. 

“But… that would _not_ be it's optimal state, John.”

 _‘Fuck, he's dangerous,’_ John thinks to himself. 

“Christ,” John mutters scrubbing his hands over his face because what that look does to him is indecent and completely unfair.

“Yeah, no!” John says snatching Sherlock's camera and gently setting it aside to avoid the temptation of giving himself over to the mad genius’ lack of boundaries. 

“I'm not modest,” John reaffirms grabbing Sherlock by the hip and pulling him forward so their cocks brush together. They groan in tandem. A little shiver pulses through Sherlock as he settles heavily into John, like he is unable to hold himself up. John rolls his hips up so they slide against each other again. Sherlock’s eyes slam closed and he begins to mutter a jumble of words incoherently under his breath again. 

John wraps his fist around their pressed together tips. His other hand wraps around the nape of Sherlock's neck and pulls him forward. He waits for Sherlock's eyes to slide open. He fixes him in a hard, intense gaze.

“Some views are privileged, Sherlock,” John growls. Every part of him commands the understanding that this is private, just between the two of them. He looks pointedly at his fist enclosing the two of them, Sherlock’s long, pale cock pressed against his, warmer in color and broader one. Sherlock lets out a little whimper and nods slowly. John smiles and winks at him and begins rolling his body as he moves his hand down their joined lengths.

Sherlock breathes John's name in a shuttering exhale. It’s so good that John feels fire coursing through his veins, calescent pleasure scalding him down to his bones, blazing along his spine and scorching every last bit of restraint.

“Shit, that's-” John's fingers trace down the dip of Sherlock's spine as they both shudder against each other, John setting a slow, steady rhythm pumping them together. 

Without consciously thought, his fingers dips between Sherlock’s cheeks to brush against his furled entrance. Sherlock lets out a choked cry, body shivering as he sharply rocks forward and backwards, caught between the two intense sensations. A surge of hot fluid leaks onto John's hand and the captain groans, excitement and desire burning through him at how obviously arousing that suggestive touch is to Sherlock.

“Oh, god, you'll let me have you that way some day, Sherlock?” John says his finger slowly and gently circling as his hand, clasped around them, starts working faster. “You'll let me be inside you?... So deep... Mmmm… All of me... Feel you around me.” 

Sherlock feels like he is being ripped apart, desire and glorious pleasure building, even more intense than the first time. He has wanted John inside him from that moment in the backroom of the pub. Since before, really, but that was the first time it coalesced into a defined thought. Since, then he has known he wanted him that way, but he never let the thoughts take form; become vivid images, made more real by John's body pressed against his own - ready and willing to fulfill that most private desire. John's hard length is now pressed against his own sensitive flesh making that fantasy a graphic and lucid possibility.

“I want that,” John growls. “I want you and me, joined... want to be surrounded by you... Consumed… oh, christ… So good… I'll make it so good for you, Sherlock… deep inside you… working you from the inside.” John rambles as he dips his finger to press against Sherlock's perineum, pressing into his prostate from the outside. Sherlock freezes, his rocking halting as a shutter pulses through him again. More thick liquid spills from his tip and without slowing his pumping strokes John slicks them both with it with his next pass, his hand working them together skillfully. 

John’s eyes are blazing now as they burn into Sherlock and the younger man can't look away. John's face is almost a snarl; phosphorescent passion chasing down pleasure with brutal determination. Sherlock had only glimpsed it before, the raw, carnal, resplendent darkness at the rugby captain's core. It makes him quiver with terrible anticipation.

“And when you can't take anymore… going to push you over the edge and watch you _just like this_ … going to feel you around me as the pleasure takes you… and god that's _all_ I’ll need… all I’ll _ever need_...” 

John presses his finger insistently against Sherlock's hole and the younger man's body arches, his head thrown back, thrusting forward and they both crash over the edge, their voices mixing in a rhapsody of pleasure so deep and all-consuming that it slices through them; their essences hemorrhaging into a collective pool. 

John is babbling when he comes back to himself; Sherlock's name mixed with muddled exclamations of awe. Sherlock is collapsed around him as a sweaty, boneless heap. He is repeating one thing over and over in a low, almost hoarse rasp. It is rhythmic, persistent like breathing or a heartbeat.

 _“Je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je t'aime.”_ John is so startled by Sherlock's apparent love confession that he grabs Sherlock by both shoulders and pushes him up to stare into his face. Sherlock sags for a moment, continuing to mutter, the words seeming to pain him as he goes on. Then he falls quiet and lifts his eyes to meet John's. They are glassy and unfocused and John can see dampness at their corners.

“Really?” John asks his eyes narrowing and searching Sherlock's face. Sherlock hesitates. He closes his eyes and swallows, then nods. 

John lets out a long, slow breath and he feels it - feels himself spilt open at the seams with the deliriously blissful exaltation. It settles around him, like peace and contentment, a certainty that here, holding Sherlock in his arms, sticky and pliant and smelling of sweat and sex, with those words hanging in the air between them, all is right with the world. It is more than he ever dared to hope for and now it is _his_ and it is… _perfect._

_Simply perfect._

“Je t'aime aussi,” John whispers into Sherlock's neck and feels the young photographer's whole body jolt and a sound like a choked sob escape his chest. Then he is curling himself into John, like a bony octopus, wrapping himself around and intertwining John in ways that almost seem impossible.

They slip off into a thick and heavy sleep tangled together; two made one.

________________

John stands gaping at himself; well a facsimile of himself. A life sized representation composed of hundreds of smaller photographs of his different parts stares back at him, naked and spread eagle, from the wall of this posh art gallery. 

John studies all the pieces; frozen moments, coalesced. His eyes focus in on the shots that are clearly from their first time together. Flushed ears with hair sticking to his cheek from perspiration. Kiss reddened lips, the bottom with a cut peeking out from inside. Of course, those lips were red from being _elsewhere_ as well. He clears his throat and looks away, smoothing the hair on the back of his neck. He shifts his dress shoes against the marble floor and tries not to fidget with his suit that Sherlock ensured was tailored perfectly but feels a little too tight and warm now.

When he feels the heat in his face dissipate, he drags his eyes back and tries to look at the artwork objectively. It is an understatement to say that Sherlock has made him look like a god; catching every part of himself at its very best. He looks unobtainably strong and powerful, luminous and aglow with some internal fire. Like a Hindu god, he is represented with two set of arms and two sets of legs, outstretched in the suggestion of a circle. John tilts his head and tries to understand the reason for this multi-limbed version of himself.

“A prophetic, modern-day representation of Da Vinci's _L'Uomo Vitruviano_ or _Vitruvian Man_." John looks over his shoulder at the man that has slid up behind him. Skinny with glasses and an expensive tailored suit, he has one arm folded across his chest and the other pressed to his lips. His head is tilted and he is looking past John to the artwork beyond with a serious, contemplative face. He looks just the sort of person John would expect to find at an art exhibition. 

“The _Vitruvian Man_ was, of course, an attempt to blend mathematics and art to represent the ideal body.” John hums and nods, tilting his head as he gazes at the artwork. He smiles at remembering Sherlock's highly scientific explanation of the project that first afternoon. This was not _at all_ what he imagined. 

“This piece has a… _reverence_... An awe for the human form… predicated on the belief that the proportions and measurements of _this body in particular_ are _perfect_...” John lets out a little huff of laughter and bows his head a moment before smirking up at the image. God, what a _compliment._ All that prattling on about gestalt and the mad genius was just working his way up to saying _this._ He feels his heart swell with affection for that brilliant man he can now call his own. He is lost in this contemplation when the man continues, his voice dropping lower.

“Da Vinci believed the workings of the human body to be an analogy for the workings of the universe. In referencing _The Vitruvian Man_ the artist, in essence, has said, _'within this man is the all the world; the entire universe in microcosm._ ” John can't help the little sound of wonder that escapes his throat and he shakes his head in awe. It was always there. For both of them. For all the literal and figurative dancing around it they did, they both were well and truly gone on each other before John even agreed to be Sherlock's model. His eyes burn a little at the revelation of how deep and clear Sherlock's feelings are. How vulnerable and courageous it is of him to put those feelings on display _like this_. 

“His model, young, obviously strong, virile male; meant to be the _perfect representation_ of man... Lovely... isn't it,” the man drawls, sliding up beside John and the rugby captain has been so lost in his own thoughts of Sherlock, it takes this gesture for him to notice the man’s slow advances. He can feel the posh stranger looking him over with more than a little interest now. There is recognition in his heated stare as he studies the assembly of pictures then looks at John. He turns towards John. “I would love to take it home with me,” he says in a suggestive tone. “But apparently the artist refuses to sell.” John feels his jaw clench and his shoulders straighten.

“Oh, yes, I am very fond of the artist,” John says casually. “And he is quite _protective_ of his work.” John at last turns towards the stranger with a tight smile that does not reach his eyes. He watches the stranger recoil a little because what his eyes clearly say is _‘don't even try - you can't handle either of us.’_

“If you'll excuse me,” John says and he turns to briskly work his way through the crowd, determined to find and snog senseless one beautiful, brilliant, mad photographer that has perfectly captured his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! This little fic has reached it's happy conclusion. My first, complete AU Johnlock fic! I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> SH: Je t'aime - I love you  
> JW: Je t'aime aussi - I love you as well

**Author's Note:**

> **Show some love if you feel the love. Your Kudos and Comments are my lifeblood!**
> 
> Special thanks to JuliaBloodyMeow for helping correct my French grammar!   
> Merci beaucoup, JuliaBloodyMeow.


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